In The Same Boat
by CatalynMJ88
Summary: "You must think it strikes me as an awful, lonely idea, but to be "in the same boat" as someone can be a place of friendship and cooperation... In just a few days, both literally and metaphorically, I found myself "in the same boat" as some of the most unexpected people." Titanic's voyage and the aftermath from Margaret Brown's POV, canon with my story "Yours, Tommie."
1. Dear Josephine

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Thanks:** To all my fanfiction and tumblr friends for their support! I'm still astounded by all the feedback and attention this story has received. You guys have made my summer. Seriously. But in the spirit of streamlining my A/N's for the revised version, all my thanks are now on the References page at the end of the story. More reviews and/or PM's welcome from anyone at any time, though I may not respond as promptly now that I'm headed back to grad school.

**I. Dear Josephine**

_Monday, 15 August, 1932_

Dear Josephine,

Learning that such a bright and lovely young woman as yourself, already a rising star in the theater, was born after the RMS _Titanic _sank, nearly sent me into another one of my migraines! But I have forgiven you for unintentionally causing an old woman such distress, and am writing to give you an honest and thorough answer to your question at the after-party last month: What was it really like for me on that voyage? This letter will remain private, of course. In what little time I have known you, I have already learned to trust your discretion, and even wisdom beyond your twenty years.

It's a funny saying, "We're all in the same boat." You must think it strikes me as an awful, lonely idea: a small group of people trapped together, stranded by the elements. I'm sure your best guess would be that I immediately think of rowing in the freezing North Atlantic with some lacy, stuck-up socialites who had never done their own laundry before, much less paddled a rowboat for hours on end; or that I think of that excuse for a man, Hichens, coming unhinged so bad that I had to threaten to throw him overboard just to get him to shut up.

I do think of that, but it's not the first thing to come to mind. I see happier scenes first. I see two women sharing a lifetime worth of sweet secrets and private jokes, as they take a leisurely ride down the Seine on a sunny day. I see a rowdy band of young boys piling into a patched rowboat on the muddy shores of Strangford Lough, the tallest and most boisterous among them their "Admiral," as they row out to adventures in the cool fog.

To be "in the same boat" as someone can be a place of friendship and cooperation; fate thrusts you together, and you determine to make the best of it, to navigate the waters side by side. You can even choose to enter someone's boat with them out of love, declaring, "I'm going with you, wherever the current takes you, and we'll fight off the deadly storms and dreaded sea monsters together."

J.J. Brown and I, God rest his soul, shared a boat happily in the early years of our marriage. I was crazy to jump in, just turned nineteen and only known the man for three months, and his boat (metaphorically speaking) being the most meager and rickety paddleboat you can imagine. We had fallen for each other, and I sensed he was a good man, honest and intelligent; so I trusted we wouldn't founder. Instead, we soon had the chance to upgrade ourselves to a very nice yacht!

Muckrakers and ministers are quick to deny the wealthy a fair chance at happiness, both earthly and divine, but I am proud to say that we remained a happy family in our early years among Denver high society. It was only as the children grew up, J.J. grew old and sullen, and I grew more cultured and outspoken, that we all began trying to paddle in different directions. In the years directly preceding _Titanic, _my family all began abandoning ship on each other. I don't blame the wealth, Josephine- just the passing of time.

As I was losing the ability to navigate my family to peaceful waters, my charm in society only increased. It's true that some still looked down on me for being "new money," nearly two decades after J.J.'s hard work and ingenuity saved not just our family's finances, but the entire town of Leadville, Colorado. However, despite the naysayers, I made headway in my favored political causes, I learned new languages and traveled the world, and I repeatedly proved myself a gracious hostess both to gala attendees and long-term houseguests.

Hospitable, always; warm, often; but truly emotionally intimate with another person? That I was becoming less and less.

They say that _Titanic _gave me another cause to champion (or gripe about, if you believe my worst critics.) However, that brief, ill-fated voyage did more than that for me:

It taught me to open my heart again. In just a few days, both literally and metaphorically, I found myself "in the same boat" as some of the most unexpected people.


	2. Just another Wonder of the World

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**II. Just another Wonder of the World**

The news came to us in Paris that my first grandchild, little Lawrence Jr., was ill. The telegram did not say _how _ill, and my daughter Helen protested that with the baby's mother and maternal grandmother watching out for him, there was no need for us to rush home. "He's ill enough for them to wire the news all the way from Kansas City," I pointed out, and booked passage for us both on the next cross-Atlantic liner. It just happened to be the brand spanking new, talk of the town, "unsinkable" RMS _Titanic._

Helen and I were concluding a lengthy world tour with John Jacob Astor IV and his wife Madeleine. The Astors were heading back to New York on _Titanic._ Helen and I had originally planned to part ways with them in Paris, and visit some friends of Helen's in England. At the last minute, and to many futile protests from me, Helen decided to keep to those plans. I would sail alone.

The six-hour train ride from Paris to Cherbourg was abuzz with talk of _Titanic_'s awe-inspiring length and tonnage, the swimming baths and the a la carte restaurant, her stability and, of course, her great speed. Imagine everyone's chagrin when, upon our arrival at the docks, we were told that the "ship of dreams" was running late from a mishap at Southampton that morning!

While the first- and second-class passengers-to-be grumbled about possibly missing dinner aboard, I looked over at the steerage passengers' separate dock. Women in plain skirts and frayed shawls corralled wide-eyed children. Their men stared in utter confusion, as a uniformed fellow repeatedly shouted instructions, in English, through a megaphone emblazoned with the White Star Line insignia.

"Sir!" I called across the gap between the docks. "Do you need an interpreter? _Sir!_" I may not have had a megaphone, but I still made myself heard. Some of the passengers on the other dock had already turned to stare. But the man with the megaphone ignored me. Finally, I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted in French, then German, then Russian, then Italian: "_The ship is running a little late, don't worry, just wait here._" Smiles and nods from the working class folk before me; whispers and smirks from the well-to-do folk behind me.

"Molly?" Maddie Astor came up and put her hand on my elbow. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Puttin my language skills to good use, darlin."

"But shouldn't we just let the White Star men do their jobs?" she giggled nervously.

Maddie's husband J.J. approached. "She would, if she couldn't do their jobs better than they themselves. Isn't that right, Molly?" he teased.

I had known the Astor family for some years. J.J. was a good man, bright and hardworking. We couldn't see eye to eye on politics to save our lives, but he respected my opinions; that was rare in those days.

J.J.'s divorce and hasty remarriage last year had caused quite a stir, especially since Maddie was thirty years his junior. The poisonous tongues of high society gossipers forced them to take an extended vacation until things simmered down. It was a scenario that I was all too personally familiar with. But unlike Mr. Brown and me in 1903, the Astors were now returning Stateside with a little one on the way. I pitied poor Maddie. The travel itself was hard enough, but to think of the venom that would be dispelled on her over her "condition" when she got home!

You see, I always thought a snakepit was a fitting metaphor for the claustrophobic, poisonous environment of wealthy social circles. Sometimes the only way to avoid getting bitten was by staying perfectly still, making no false moves. I suppose it's my Western upbringing that inspired the comparison, but I digress.

By 5:00 we boarded the SS _Nomadic, _the tender that would take us out to the grand liner. I recall a short, middle-aged man who dropped an artist's portfolio while boarding. His papers scattered in the wind, and he scrambled to catch them all before they tumbled into the sea. Perhaps because he appeared to be second class rather than first, no one else stepped forward to help him.

I began grabbing for papers. I was surprised to recognize the Arabesque arched doorways, the circle of lion statues spitting water, the myrtle hedges and the long, narrow pool… "Are these of the Alhambra?" I wondered aloud.

"They sure are!" The artist shook my hand as he tucked papers back into his portfolio. "Samuel Ward Stanton," he introduced himself. "I'm creating a mural of the palace for the SS _Washington Irving._"

"Well it oughta be an impressive mural; your drawings are very accurate," I said, handing him the pages I had collected. "Margaret Brown."

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown. …Have you seen the Alhambra in person?"

"I have! I was there a few years ago with my daughter." We boarded while chatting about the exquisite Moorish palace, nestled between the snow-capped Sierra Nevadas and the beautiful university town of Granada, Spain…

The Alhambra, the Taj Mahal, the Pyramids at Giza, the Coliseum, the Eiffel Tower… These sites fascinated me, but wasn't a single human soul more valuable than all these cold monuments of metal and stone? I was not impressed by those who hid their true affections behind gala chatter about wonders of the world. Why did we spend so little time talking about our friends and family? Why did seemingly everyone boarding _Titanic_ know about my J.J.'s "striking it rich," but no one seemed truly concerned for why I had joined this voyage alone and at the last minute?

Outwardly, I expressed all the zeal and wit expected of a "cultured" woman. Inside, I was empty.

First- and second-class stood together for once, waiting in anticipation on _Nomadic_'s promenade. _Titanic _was approaching. The great ship's silhouette extended some sixty feet high into the golden sunset, her four funnels even higher. The light through her portholes glimmered like sequins on a black dress. The behemoth drew closer, until she blocked all else from view.

I stood beside Maddie Astor, who marveled: "It's beautiful, Molly… But I can't really tell that it's longer than any of the other grand liners I've seen. Is it really bigger than the _Mauretania_?"

"Only by about a hundred feet," I informed her, chuckling. "But that's enough that the men won't shut up about it. You know how they get about size."

She was blank. "What do you mean?"

I sighed. "Never mind."

You could say I was less impressed with _Titanic _than most. As we finally prepared to board, I thought to myself, _Just another wonder of the world._

(line)

My stateroom on B deck had a spacious armoire, a sitting area by the window, and a four-poster bed with an electric heater at its foot. The creamy new wallpaper had an elegant, gilded swirl pattern. The doorframes and paneling were finely polished oak, as was the bedframe. The rest of the furniture was mahogany, upholstered in creamy fabric that matched the walls. The bedclothes were ruby red, matching the carpet that was so brand spanking new that you could still smell the factory.

This place was as nice as my usual room at the Ritz-Carlton in New York! I felt a heady enticement to relax for the rest of the evening with a good book and a glass of brandy, but I had to check in at the Astors' suite. Maddie was suffering from motion sickness, and had taken nothing but seltzer water on the train and the _Nomadic. _As _Titanic _was motionless thus far, this would be a good opportunity to get some food in her.

I tipped my steward, and was almost out the door when two more came in, carrying a covered canvas. "Ya'll work fast!" I marveled. I had bought several paintings in Paris, and requested that one in particular be brought out of storage and up to my stateroom during the voyage. "Just leave the Abbéma on the bed, please. Gently. I'll call for someone to help me put it up later."

J.J. and the Astors' servants were glad to see me, and approved of my mission. "The dining saloon's closed by now," a White Star steward informed us as he brought the Astors' dog, Kitty, into the suite in a gilded carrier. "But the a la carte restaurant is still open."

You hear all the time from _Titanic _survivors that they had trouble finding their way around, because the ship was just that big and dazzling. Maybe I just have an extra keen sense of direction, but that always seemed silly to me. There were complimentary ship's guidebooks in our staterooms, for heaven's sake! The restaurant was aft on A deck, and the Astors' suite was practically at the foot of the Grand Staircase, on C deck. So Maddie and I walked up two flights of stairs and headed towards the back of the boat. There wasn't much to it, really.

Admittedly, I did have to kind of pull Maddie along. She kept stopping to stare at the gilded inlay in the Grand Staircase banisters, or at the huge wrought iron and glass dome that topped the Staircase above boat deck. When we passed the same scene again in miniature, at the aft Grand Staircase, she declared, "Oh, Molly, this place is like heaven!"

We paid the young cashier girl and entered the restaurant. Warm lighting, light wicker furniture, and climbing vines gave the place a cozy feel, even with the inky night looming beyond the panoramic windows. The ship was as motionless as if we were on solid ground; I assumed they hadn't lifted anchor yet. The restaurant was less than half-full, and rather quiet, the perfect place to try and get Maddie eating.

We were seated and munching on breadsticks when two men briskly walked in. One was in a steward's uniform; the other wore a fine tuxedo with long tails, and carried a small, black notebook.

"I'm sorry to keep you away from dinner, sir…"

"Oh, not at all, Mr. Martin. Now let's see about that troublesome fan…"

The steward fetched a ladder as the gentleman placed his notebook on an empty table, then climbed towards the ceiling fan with a screwdriver between his teeth. They talked the whole time. Curiosity got the better of me; I listened carefully, trying to locate their accents.

Not so much because my parents were both born in Ireland, but because of my involvement in immigrants' charities in Colorado, I can pinpoint the different Irish brogues pretty precisely. It's an interesting talent, if only occasionally useful. These two were both from Ulster- or what we call Northern Ireland, today. The steward sounded like he was pure Belfast, born and raised. The gentleman's accent had refined overtones that hinted at a "country home" upbringing, some miles outside the great industrial city.

Maddie was intrigued by them, too. "Do you know who that is?" she whispered, nodding towards the gentleman's turned back.

"Darlin, I haven't a clue."

"He's dressed like a first-class passenger, but he's acting like crew… Which do you think he is?"

I shrugged. Just then, the gentleman finished his work and stepped down off the ladder. As he shook hands with the steward, I noticed he stood half a foot taller than the other man. "Let's ask him," I muttered to Maddie. "Um, excuse me, sir!"

He turned around, his expression intent. "Can I help you, madam?" he asked, not unkindly. He had a straight nose and firm chin, broad shoulders, and wavy, gray-flecked brown hair. This one was certainly easy on the eyes!

"Did ya eat supper yet?" I asked.

He relaxed, and chuckled with surprise. I realized he'd expected a complaint rather than an invitation! "Bout half of it, actually, before I was called away." He picked up that little notebook of his. "First by a malfunctioning grill press, then by the swimming baths, then by this ceiling fan…"

"Well, ya wanna top off with us?" I offered.

"It'd be my pleasure." He came up to our table in a few long, easy strides.

I held out my hand, palm sideways rather than palm down, for a handshake and not a kiss. I was pleased when he noted and followed my unspoken wishes; many gentlemen in those days would have twisted my hand around to kiss it anyway. "I'm Margaret Brown."

Maddie held out her hand for a kiss, and he obliged. "Madeleine Astor."

"Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Astor, pleasure to meet ye both." He sat and placed his notebook on his lap. "I'm Thomas Andrews."

"So whaddaya do for a livin, Mr. Andrews?" I asked. It seemed a polite way to get at our question of whether he was passenger or crew.

"I build ships," he answered simply, tearing hungrily into a breadstick. Men as tall and vigorous as him don't usually take kindly to skipping half of dinner.

"Oh really! Did ya build this one?" I teased.

His brown eyes were warm and honest as he answered me:

"Why yes, Mrs. Brown, I suppose ye could say that I did."

(line)

**A/N:** Yes, Margaret Brown spoke at least a little of all those languages (and she was fluent in French.) Yes, Samuel Ward Stanton was a real second-class passenger, and I portrayed his current project when boarding _Titanic _accurately. No clue whether Margaret Brown ever really went to the Alhambra, but it's very possible, and _I've _been there and loved it, so I put it in! :-)


	3. An Interesting Chance Encounter

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**III. An Interesting Chance Encounter**

Sometimes, when you've only just met someone, you already _know _that they're honest and kind. Thomas Andrews was one of those people. His speech and clothing screamed "socialite," yet he had firm, calloused hands that were clearly acquainted with hard work. He was humble and easygoing. After admitting that he built the _Titanic, _he blushed slightly and rushed to say, "With the help of fifteen thousand good, hardworking Irishmen, of course."

"So where are ya from? County Down?" I asked. Having observed he was Belfast-outskirts genteel, I had about a fifty-fifty chance of being right. (The other good guess would've been County Antrim.) I only ventured a guess at all because, after knowing the man for just two minutes, I already wanted to see if I could make him laugh.

His eyes widened in shock. "I am, indeed! I grew up in Comber. You've quite an ear, Mrs. Brown!"

"Thanks. Ya know, I don't hear Ulster accents much. Most of the Irish immigrants I work with are from further south."

He nodded politely. "I take it you're a philanthropist, then?"

"I am," I said, with a stroke of pride. "And a suffragist."

"_Really_?" he raised his eyebrows. "And what is it you do, Mrs. Astor?"

"Not much," Maddie giggled. "I got engaged straight out of finishing school, and am just now returning home from my honeymoon."

"Oh! Well, congratulations." He gave her a smile that could melt ice.

The conversation bounced from topic to topic. Maddie would compliment Mr. Andrews on some aspect of the ship, which would prompt an anecdote from him about his "pals" (the shipyard workers) who had constructed that part of _Titanic._ Then I would step up with a story of my own: about my J.J.'s days as a mine manager back in Leadville, or about my charity work…

I mentioned the Carnival of Nations, which had been a crucial fundraiser for the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Denver. Maddie was astounded that the carnival included booths not just for every European heritage present in the city, but also the Chinese, Mexican, and Indian folk. "Weren't you afraid of the crowds becoming… unruly?"

"My critics were, but I wasn't," I replied. "Everyone was there for a good cause, after all."

"Raising funds for a Catholic cathedral; I trust Ireland was _well_ represented," Mr. Andrews said wryly.

"_Very,_" I smiled, and with that, conversation turned to the topic of the shipbuilder's homeland.

Moments later, Mr. Andrews was explaining to us: "You see, in some ways we're still a nation in recovery, what with the famine only now beginning to fade from living memory…"

"The famine?" Madeleine asked curiously. "What famine?"

"The potato famine of the 1840's," he said grimly. "The potato is by far our most important crop, being a hardy food source that grows well in the northern cool. But back in the forties, the crop failed for five years on end; one in three people either fled the country or starved to death." He sighed, looking down at the abundance on the table before us. "It's tragic, really, how easy it is to be brought low by one small problem, when all your faith is one resource. Sometimes the best insurance is diversity of options."

"Well said, Mr. Andrews." I thought of Leadville's extreme struggle in the silver crisis of 1893. It was my J.J.'s reckless determination to find a way to dig deeper, and for gold instead of silver, that pulled the entire city back from the brink of ruin.

"But what happened to the potatoes?" Maddie asked.

Though still somber, Mr. Andrews was quite focused on the topic. "Blight invaded the entire crop." He gestured as he spoke, emphatic but gentle, keeping his hands close to his body. "To this day we're not sure where it came from."

"What's blight?"

"A fungus," I explained to Maddie.

"A… fungus?" She frowned down at the mashed potatoes in front of her.

"The potatoes either never grew, or came up rotted through," Mr. Andrews continued, carried away by morbid enthusiasm. "Eventually, the blight ran its course. Though we've never seen it as bad as the forties again, it does come back from time to time."

Maddie had turned an interesting shade of green. She pushed her own potatoes far, far away from her. "Um… Molly, I think I'll head back to my cabin, now."

"Want me to escort ya back?" I offered.

"No, it's fine, I have the guidebook." Her voice was faint. "It was nice meeting you, Mr. Andrews."

He nodded politely as she stood. That was the first he saw of her figure, and I saw the surprise written on his face. As soon as Maddie was out of earshot, he leaned in close to me, his wide brown eyes full of worry. "Mrs. Brown, is Mrs. Astor, by any chance, erm…" he whispered, "_in the family way?_"

I winced. "Yup."

"_Oh._" He leaned back in his chair, sighing deeply, a hand against his forehead. "And I just went off about _blight,_ of all things. While she was _eating!_ Dear God…" His face was turning red. "I can't believe I… It's been a long day, Mrs. Brown."

"I'm sure it has."

There was something endearing about a man of Mr. Andrews' station feeling remorse over making an eighteen-year-old girl queasy. In those days, some so-called "gentlemen" would have brushed off the incident as owing to the "silliness" of women, rather than to any fault of their own.

"Don't worry," I reassured him. "Maddie's a sweetheart; she'll forgive you. Actually, she'll be flattered when I tell her that you didn't _already know_."

"And why is that?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

I was a little incredulous. "Don't ya know who John Jacob Astor is?"

"I've heard the name, yes. But since he's neither involved in shipbuilding, nor frequently in Ireland, I can't say that we've met… I suppose Madeleine's his daughter-in-law, then?"

I sighed. They say there's no snakes in Ireland. This gentleman had just designed the grandest ship in the world and somehow didn't realize that its most luxurious parlors would become rattler pits. I couldn't let him fall into that unprepared.

So I debriefed him on the Astors' "scandalous" marriage. I warned him that the amorous lady he'd see on Benjamin Guggenheim's arm was his mistress, not his wife. I told him to never, under _any_ circumstances, cross the valet of steel heir Caledon Hockley, as the dreadful manservant was retired from Scotland Yard… There were so many pitfalls to avoid! As Mr. Andrews tucked in to a main course of chicken cordon bleu, he actually began jotting notes of all my warnings in his little book!

When I finally ran out of things to tell him, he said, "Thank you, Mrs. Brown. Truly. Though, you must be thinking that I don't know how to socialize…"

I shook my head. "That's not what I was thinkin at all, Mr. Andrews." I was thinking, _How refreshing to meet a man who treats not just me, but little Maddie Astor, with genuine respect; proves himself compassionate to his employees and dedicated to his craft; and then patiently lets me talk his ear off!_

He rushed to explain: "I seldom leave Belfast, except for White Star maiden voyages. I do know how to handle a 'snakepit,' as ye call it; I'm just not familiar with these particular snakes." He dug a large, gold pocket watch out of his vest and flipped it open. He sighed at the time. "Speaking of which, I should be getting to the smoking room…"

"Of course." I was deadpan. "Ya sound just _thrilled _to go."

He gave me an impish half-smile, and muttered, "According to a Mr. J. Bruce Ismay, my work duties include wading through a cloud of cigar smoke each night, in order to congratulate our wealthiest passengers on being _masters of the universe._" He whispered the last bit, feigning an air of conspiracy.

I chuckled. I recognized the name of Ismay, of course. You'd never guess it today, Josephine, but in 1912, Ismay had his mustachioed mug plastered next to photos of _Titanic _herself at every opportunity. And the press gave him a _lot _of opportunities.

I suppose I should explain Mr. Ismay's and Mr. Andrews' relationship. You'll know that infamous old J. Bruce was chairman of the White Star Line, which owned _Titanic. _But they contracted Harland & Wolff, in Belfast, to build her. Harland & Wolff was the biggest and most advanced shipyard in the world at the time. They were not entirely immune to the egotism plaguing any prestigious business. Which made Mr. Andrews' gentle nature all the more surprising, to me, since I knew he was somewhere near the top of the heap at Harland & Wolff- even if he hadn't mentioned his actual title during our conversation.

At any rate, while it would be inaccurate to call J. Bruce Ismay his "employer," you could say that Ismay did have some control over Thomas Andrews on the voyage. If only when it came to publicity matters, which I could already tell were not Andrews' forte. He spoke far too much in jokes and anecdotes, rather than haughty opinions and veiled boasts.

"Say, what time is it, anyway?" I asked as he stood up, brushing crumbs off his suit.

He flipped open the watch again. "Quarter past nine."

Observing the ship's stillness, I asked, "When're we liftin anchor?"

You have to understand that when I refer to Mr. Andrews being humble, I mean about himself. His ship, on the other hand, could bring out a stroke of pride. My question made him playfully toss his pocket watch in the air a bit before snapping it shut. Another smile now, playing at his eyes more than his mouth. "We started moving about an hour ago, Mrs. Brown. Smooth as glass, isn't she?"

We said our goodbyes, and I used the guidebook to find my way to the reading and writing room, still smiling a little to myself. I recall thinking, _That was an interesting chance encounter._ I did not expect to see Mr. Andrews much during the voyage. I didn't admit to myself how quickly his gentle charm had warmed me.

(line)

**A/N:** Let me take this opportunity to say that while I use historical fact to furnish their personalities and the details of their conversation, Thomas Andrews and Margaret Brown as they appear in my story are _fictionalized_. In reality they ran in rather different social circles among _Titanic_'s first class. I don't know if they ever even met, and if they did, they were most likely just cordial acquaintances.

But while doing initial research for "Yours, Tommie," I decided to make Thomas and Margaret friends in my story, based on some uncanny common interests and what I perceived to be compatible personalities. (Not to mention the fact that they sit next to each other in two meal scenes in Cameron's film!) Then, while writing "Yours, Tommie," I had the idea to make the friendship a little bit _more _than that, only from Margaret's side of things- hence the current story project. :-)


	4. Wild Pagan Spirits

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**IV. Wild Pagan Spirits**

Besides the attendant, there was only one woman in the reading and writing room. She sat at a table at the room's fore, beneath a huge window overlooking the electric lights of the A-deck promenade. I pulled up a chair at her table. "How do you do? I'm Margaret Brown."

I remember she was reading Sigmund Freud, _The Interpretation of Dreams._ She looked up rather slowly and we shook hands. "Rose DeWitt Bukater."

She wore a stylish, women's two-piece suit: feminine, and yet toying with men's fashion norms as well. She had wide green eyes, a soft and clear young face, and a bun of thick and curly auburn hair. My political beliefs make me wince to write this, but I believe any man, _any _at all, who laid eyes on her would be quite taken with her. And perhaps half the women who saw her, too.

"Pleasure to meet ya, Miss DeWitt Bukater." I sat down across from her. She managed to look down her nose at me a bit, now that we were on the same level. "I've met your mother at galas in New York." Ruth DeWitt Bukater had made little impression on me before _Titanic,_ besides 'middle-aged, old money,' but I always remember names and faces. Very useful talent in those circles. "Ya'll are from Philadelphia if I'm not mistaken?"

"Yes," Rose frowned, quiet. "Mother tells me you're from out west."

"Missouri by birth, Colorado for most of my adult life, and these days you can find me just about anywhere in the world," I smiled.

If my answer charmed her, she didn't show it, keeping her chin up and her tone icy. "Yes. Well, Mrs. Brown, I'm delighted, really. But I came here to read rather than to socialize, so…"

"Oh. Of course. Don't mind me." I pulled some blank postcards and a pen out of my purse.

Rose's purported motive for coming to the reading and writing room was a big fat lie. You see, while the smoking room was officially "men only," a ship's reading and writing roomwas the unofficial haven for us ladies. The "ladies' smoking room," so to speak, except with no smoking allowed, and no _official_ sanctions against our men intruding on us if they were so inclined. I was actually surprised to see this room so desolate, even if it was after 9:00 PM on sailing day. It should have been a den of chatter and gossip.

My postcards boasted color drawings of the Pyramids at Giza and the Great Sphinx. I would have sent them before leaving Paris, if I hadn't been distracted by the news of my grandson's poor health. Rose, for all her posturing as a scathing socialite, stole inquisitive glances at the illustrations. Finally, I broke the ice: "Ever been to Egypt, Rose?"

"No, I can't say that I have." She frowned thoughtfully at the postcards. "Mother limits our travels to western Europe and the eastern States. She believes the rest of the world is too savage."

Ouch. Well, nice to know what her mother thought of my own geographic origins.

"Would you… recommend Egypt, Mrs. Brown?" Rose earmarked Freud and set him gently on the table. "I hear there are a lot of insects…"

"There are, but you just gotta get good netting."

"I've also heard they…" She leaned in towards me. "They practice sorcery there?"

"Well, yes and no. The common people are Mohammedan: it's a different creed, but God-fearing all the same. There are _some _fortune-tellers and tarot readers, but you see those in Europe too..."

"Of course." Rose anxiously glanced around the room, then whispered excitedly: "I've always been curious to go to one. Just for fun!"

"Well ya should! I did in Egypt!" Her eyes grew wide. "Although it was a bit of a rip off," I chuckled. "As soon as he heard I was American, he started babbling on about disaster at sea, knowing I'd have to cross _sometime_, and trying to boost his business with sensationalism…"

After spending so much time with innocent Maddie Astor, you must think I was beginning to feel like a governess, always explaining the ways of the world to younger women. But my job was easy with Rose; she was a bright and eager pupil, asking about ancient Egypt's glorious architecture and pagan religion, about the weather, the food, the language, even the camels!

I was my usual pleasant and informative self, Josephine, I will have you know. As I spun my yarns, Rose's judgmental façade began to fall, and she shyly smiled more than once. I became curious to know about this intelligent, seemingly adventurous young girl whose travels had been restricted to crusty, "civilized" locales surrounding the North Atlantic. "So are you and your mother traveling for social purposes?"

"To shop for wedding gowns, actually." She thrust her left hand forward, showing off a gold engagement ring, with rubies surrounding a diamond the size of a pine nut.

"Well isn't that somethin!" I blurted. Rose's face turned a shade of red reminiscent of her namesake. "Congratulations, darlin."

"Thank you."

"London or Paris?"

"Philadelphia, next month; all of local high society will be there." Her answer was surprisingly glum.

"I meant for the dress shoppin?" I said gently.

"Oh! …Both."

With a rock thatbig, and a multi-city, trans-Atlantic jaunt just to find the perfect dress, I had to wonder… "Who's your beau?"

"Caledon Hockley," she answered quietly. "I've heard he's the second-richest man on the ship, after J.J. Astor of course." I waited for her to brag about his endearing qualities, the way lovers usually do. She did not.

"So… how'd you like Paris?"

"Oh," she breathed. Her blush faded and her eyes sparkled. I prepared for rhapsodies about Parisian bridal fashions. Instead, what she said next nearly floored me: "I saw the Divine Sarah_. _She was so powerful!"

She referred to the actress Sarah Bernhardt, and with the epithet used only by her devoted fans- including me, of course. But Bernhardt is a controversial figure, to say the least. "Your mother won't take you west of the Mississippi, but she took you to see Sarah Bernhardt?" I teased.

She flashed a devious grin. "No, she just _let _me go. With an old friend from finishing school. And I suspect if she knew anything about Sarah's work_, _she wouldn't have done even that!"

We chatted away at least a half hour about the Divine Sarah alone, marveling at her versatility, her dark and mysterious beauty, her _voix d'or_ ("golden voice"). Furthermore, we spoke of what her work meantto us personally: resilience, an independent spirit, unabashed passion in life.

"Ya know, our society needs a few women in each era who listen for the call of their muses and nothin else," I said.

"Wild pagan spirits," Rose giggled quietly. She had her elbows on the table and her hands coyly in front of her face, the soft white fingers laced together.

"Exactly. In our day, the muses have blessed us with Sarah in the theater. And in dance, well, they graciously gave us-"

"Isadora Duncan!" we said in unison. We giggled like schoolgirls sharing a scandalous secret. I felt the attendant staring. I cleared my throat and straightened in my chair.

"Did ya know Sarah Bernhardt writes plays as well?"

"No!" Rose exclaimed. "Does she? I bet they're _fascinating._"

"They are. Do you read French?"

"_Oui bien sûr, madame._" Rose clearly had the benefit of a proper finishing school education; her accent was more perfectly Parisian than anything I'd heard on the streets of Paris.

"I have an autographed copy of one of her works back in my stateroom." I smiled to myself as Rose's jaw dropped. "If you promise to take care of it, I could lend it to ya at breakfast tomorrow."

"Absolutely! I promise!" she gushed. "That's very generous of you, Mrs. Brown-"

"Please, call me Molly."

"Molly. Oh, my… I'm speechless. It's such a lovely gesture on your part, truly."

"Hey, what's a priceless book between two devotees of the Divine Sarah?" I winked. I pulled out a pocket watch I kept in my purse, one of my J.J.'s old watches. "It's after eleven, darlin, we better be gettin to bed."

We left the reading and writing room arm in arm. "Molly, I can't tell you how much it means to have, well…" she searched for words. "An _invigorating _conversation, for once. I should show you the paintings in my suite, sometime; I look forward to your take on them."

"Should I escort ya back to the suite?" I asked as we entered the Grand Staircase.

"Oh, no." She pulled a copy of the White Star guidebook out of her purple velvet pocketbook. "I can find my own way, but thank you."

"Good for you!" I smiled. "Be independent, Rose! Find your own way in this world!" My encouragement was over-the-top, I know, but in the spirit of our conversation. I was surprised when my words caused Rose to blink furiously, her smile strained. _Perhaps it's just too late in the evening for her, _I thought at the time.

"Goodnight, Molly."

"Goodnight, Rose." We parted ways.

Back in my stateroom, I flicked on the electric heater and checked the time again. It was nearly midnight. A late evening for me, certainly! I should have hopped into my pajamas and burrowed into those decadent down bedcovers straightaway, but first there was one more thing I felt compelled to do.

I lifted the protective sheet off the canvas propped against the wall. In shimmering, chaotic impressionism, I saw the shop-lined Seine River in Paris on a sunny day. In the foreground, two ladies rowed a tourists' paddleboat together. One was a buxom, soft-faced redhead, both her hair and her dress loose and flowing. The other was a thin, sharply-dressed brunette. At a glance, they seemed to have little in common except the boat itself- and their adoring smiles towards one another.

The painting was by Louise Abbéma, a mildly famous French painter and the brunette depicted in the scene. Her rowing companion was none other than Sarah Bernhardt. All of Paris society knew they were inseparable, the best of friends. Some whispered that perhaps they were more than that.

Personally, I didn't care much about what the two women might or might not have done behind closed doors. But the trust and understanding between them, seen so clearly in their eyes, that was something I longed for. Something I hadn't felt in years.

(line)

**A/N: **Margaret Brown was a Sarah Bernhardt fan, though I don't know if she had an autographed copy of _L'Aveu_; made that up for kicks. :-) Though I couldn't find any photos of it, the Abbéma painting depicting her and Sarah in a rowboat together _does _exist. In reality it was lost to history until the 1990's. When it was discovered, an inscription on the back not only confirmed that Abbéma and Bernhardt were the women in the painting, but also strongly suggested that the rumor of them having been lovers is true.


	5. Going Up, She Goes

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**V. Going Up, She Goes**

On Thursday, 11 April, 1912, a steward knocked on my door to wake me at 6:00 AM, as I had requested the previous day. I read a little morning Scripture and prayed. Then, before taking my exercise walk, I dressed for the day.

I'm not the kind to remember exactly what I wore, but I would imagine it was something stylish, and dark in color. In those days, I was especially drawn to colors like maroon, eggplant purple, forest green, and of course black. I wanted my outfits to slim me, in color and cut. If it comfortably offered some semblance of the hourglass figure I had as a younger woman, then all the better, but I wouldn't resort to wearing something that restrained my movement. You wouldn't catch me dead in a corset!

I remember thinking to myself as I walked the nearly empty promenade that morning, _Well, I can easily get in a long walk without getting too bored! _It only took three or four laps around A-deck to walk a full mile! If I ever wanted a change of scenery, there was always the wide open view up on boat deck, but I would stay down here today. The morning was windy and overcast, and large sections of A-deck promenade were enclosed with sliding glass windows and equipped with heaters, a new innovation for a ship in those days. _I'll have to compliment that Andrews fellow on the idea, if our paths cross again, _I decided.

After my walk, I had just enough time in my stateroom to freshen my makeup, plan what work I might bring to the reading and writing room later, and find the autographed copy of Bernhardt's _L'Aveu_ to lend to Rose. I arrived in the dining saloon at 8:30 sharp, and the place was already bustling with hungry earlybirds. By the time the stewards brought my breakfast tea, Rose arrived and joined my table, with her mother in tow.

The DeWitt Bukater women were both well-dressed redheads, and that is just about where the similarities ended. Rose wore the latest styles, while Ruth was secluded in the lacy modesty of the recently-bygone Victorian era. Rose was vivacious and expressive. Even when she tried to maintain a socialite's composure, I could read her emotions in her eyes- and I'd just met her the day before! Ruth was like a stone wall. Her pale blue eyes were ever cool and searching; she kept her face so still that it almost unnerved me. She spoke as if any sway in volume or emotion might make something break.

After the usual pleasantries, I asked them, "So, gals, what's on the itinerary today?"

"Well," Rose smiled, "I was hoping to watch the boarding at Queenstown from the promenade."

"Don't be ridiculous, dear," Ruth primly muttered. "It's all steerage and cargo at this port. It is not a social opportunity."

"I don't want to go for a _social opportunity_, Mother. I like seeing the poor people so hopeful and happy to come to the New World."

The more Rose spoke, the more I liked her, but I kept my approval to myself. I try not to meddle in others' family feuds. I could see Ruth's grip on her teacup tightening, and Rose's shoulders squaring defensively beneath her off-white silk dress.

All eyes were on Ruth. She was terse. "It simply will not do, Rose. We have been invited to dine with Mr. Ismay in the Café Parisian at two. You will be freshening up for luncheon while those steerage people come aboard."

"Ya know," I intervened. "Madeleine Astor and I were thinkin of trying out the swimming baths. They open for the ladies at ten. If you're already takin a late luncheon, you could come with us and still have plenty of time to change after."

Rose was instantly eager. "Oh, we should, Mother! The exercise will do us both some good."

"Hm." With her gloved pinky out, Ruth gently set down her tea. "Did you say you're going with Madeleine Astor?" She was suddenly a bit more pleasant… I think. It was hard to tell. She looked up at me with her head slightly cocked.

"Probably. Depends on how she's feeling, of course."

"Of course. She's about Rose's age, isn't she?" Another prim sip of tea, feigning only mild interest.

"More or less. She's a lovely gal, too." _Oh, and the wife of the richest man on the ship, if that interests you at all, Ruth._ I'll admit, I thought it; by the grace of God, I did not say it. Rose frowned at her mother in reproach.

"Unfortunately, Mrs. Brown, I don't have a swimming costume aboard." Ruth gave me a measured, deliberate sort of smile. "But Rose does. She'll meet you both at the swimming baths at ten." She began slicing her breakfast ham, wrists up- the most dainty and ineffectual way to do the job. "It'll be nice to make a new friend, won't it, dear?" she coached.

Rose lacked enthusiasm. "Yes, Mother."

Nothing much else of interest happened during our meal, except when Ruth stopped Rose from having a dessert Danish, using nothing but a touch on the elbow and a murmur. To distract Rose, I fished _L'Aveu_ out of my belongings and presented it to her then. She gushed gratitude for a bit, then read the autograph inside the front cover, got absorbed, and started reading the actual work.

"We don't read at the table, Rose," Ruth breathed the reprimand as if she'd said it a thousand times. "You know it doesn't bother _me_, but when we're in others' company…"

"Oh, I don't mind," I smiled. Ruth shot me a furious glare. 'Didn't bother her', indeed.

(line)

Just as I liked Rose more and more as I got to know her, I have to admit I felt the same way about _Titanic. _Upon boarding, I was bound and determined not to be impressed. But as Maddie and I sat along the edge of the pool of warmed seawater on G deck, dipping our feet in, I marveled to myself: _An enclosed promenade, a swimming bath… what will they think of next?_

"Molly, how can they have a pool on board without flooding the ship?" Maddie asked.

"They have pumps that control how much water comes in," I answered patiently. "How are ya feelin, sweetie?"

"Much better than yesterday. The water feels _lovely. _I would almost jump in, if it were shallow enough," she confessed.

The entire pool was six feet deep. In Madeleine's condition, she had to keep her head above water at all times, so it would be dangerous for her to get in without assistance. "I could ask the attendant if they have personal buoys," I offered.

"Oh, no, don't worry yourself, Molly," Maddie rushed. She sounded a bit fearful, so I didn't push the issue.

Seemingly the antithesis of Maddie, adventurous Rose had tossed aside her silk swimming cap and plunged in as soon as we arrived. Her lavender swimming dress billowed as she gracefully bent at the waist, slid under headfirst, touched the pool's floor, crouched and then pushed back to the surface with a plié. She did this again and again, like a mermaid ballerina.

I told Maddie about Mr. Andrews' remorse over the previous evening's conversation. "It's quite alright," she said. "He seems like a kind man- just a bit absentminded, perhaps. Maybe he's not used to female company?"

"He wore a wedding band," I reminded her.

"Oh, he did? I hadn't noticed," she airly replied. Conversation moved on. Soon Maddie grew restless, got up and put on her bathing coat.

Rose swam to the pool's edge and wiped seawater from her eyes with a towel. "Are you heading back up, Maddie?" The two young women had small-talked some in our time together; they were cordial acquaintances, but certainly hadn't hit it off. Ruth would have been displeased, but given their personalities were like night and day, I wasn't too surprised.

"I'm afraid I need a little rest before luncheon," said Maddie. "Molly, would you like to escort me back?"

"Go on," Rose murmured to me. "I don't require supervision, Molly; I'm not fragile."

She had that right! (Or so I thought then.) Besides, there were several other ladies in the swimming bath, and the attendant was here; I wasn't leaving her _alone_, per se… "I'll come along, Maddie. Rose, I think I'll jump in with ya when I get back,"

It wasn't yet half-past eleven when I dropped off Maddie at the Astors' suite. She would have plenty of time to rest and dress for 1:00 luncheon in the dining saloon. When I returned, all the swimmers had left to prepare for luncheon, except for Rose.

She was curiously still on the water… just _floating. _I wheeled on the attendant, alarmed. "She's face up and breathing, I checked!" the employee blustered. "But I don't think she wants to be disturbed…"

I rushed over to her as quickly as I dared on the moist floor tiles. She didn't seem to be in distress. But it was an eerie sight. Her eyes were closed, her face blank and doll-like. Her auburn tresses splayed in every direction in the still water. She floated on her body's own buoyancy, but in the heavy swimming costume of the era, she was pulled down so that her mouth and nose were dangerously close to the water.

Her lips were moving. Was she struggling to breathe? I descended a ladder into the pool, to get close enough to hear. She was breathing just fine- and singing a recent popular hit that I'd bet is your namesake, Josephine. She took the usually cheerful tune and made it breathy and slow:

_Come, Josephine, in my flying machine_

_Going up, she goes! Up she goes!_

_Balance yourself like a bird on a beam_

_In the air she goes! There she goes!_

"Rose?" Her name came out as a whisper at first. She was scaring me. "Rose? _Rose!_"

Her eyes flew open. She righted herself and treaded water. "Molly!"

"Darlin, what're ya doin?" I asked gently.

"Flying." She was straight-faced for a moment, then burst into nervous laughter. "Just… flying, Molly, don't worry."

"Alright." I managed a faint smile. Despite her solid swimming skills, I extended a hand to pull her back to the wall. "Whaddaya say we go get ready for luncheon, sweetheart?"

I was worried for her. Something wasn't quite right. Was it her mother's oppression that had such an effect on her? Perhaps if it was, her life would improve once she married and got out from under her mother's roof.

We were exiting the elevator on B deck, wrapped in our bathing coats for warmth and modesty, when a well-dressed man of about thirty approached us. "Rose!" He wrapped his arm around Rose's shoulders; with the other hand, he pulled her bathing coat even tighter. "Sweetheart, will the Astors be meeting us at the café?"

Rose blanched. "What?"

He rolled his eyes theatrically. "Your mother tells me you've made friends with Madeleine Astor, and that while you went swimming this morning, you were going to invite her and J.J. to luncheon with us." This was quite a drama for the fancy little lobby of oak and marble. Rose's man lowered his voice, teeth gritted. "I changed the reservation from four to six. You wouldn't want us to look a fool in front of Mr. Ismay, now _would_ you?" he hissed.

"I… I don't know what you're talking about, Cal. Mother didn't _order _me to invite the Astors…" Flustered, Rose cast about for some reassurance or distraction. She found me. "Oh, Cal! Forgive my manners! Allow me to introduce Mrs. Brown. We met in the reading and writing room yesterday. She's quite versed in literature."

When we were newlyweds in Leadville, one day after a flood, my J.J. found a small carcass in our backyard that was so battered and muddy that even he couldn't figure out what sort of creature it was. His expression of utter confusion, mixed with pity and disgust, was something like this man's first glance at me. "Um, yes, the famous Mrs. J.J. Brown. Of course. Your husband's well-known in my industry." He took and kissed my hand. "Caledon Hockley, of N.C. Hockley Steel."

"Pleasure to meet ya, Mr. Hockley. Can I call ya Cal?"

The couple answered simultaneously. Rose said, "Oh yes, everyone does," while Cal said, "'Mr. Hockley' will be fine." He heaved a dramatic sigh, then pretended to tease her lightly: "So. Who's our sixth?"

It dawned on us both that he assumed Rose had invited _me _to luncheon instead of the Astors. I played along: "A good friend of mine. I'll get dressed real quick and go find…" _Him or her?_ "…them."

Rose's face was awash with relief. "Of course. See you and… your friend… at luncheon, Molly." They headed for their suite. Cal practically carried Rose off on the arm of his suit coat.

_Me and my big mouth! _I scolded myself as I bustled to my stateroom, dressed as quickly as I could, then set out in search of someone- anyone- that I could rope into coming along to this shenanigan. The corridors were nearly empty; most people were already at the 1:00 luncheon in the dining saloon.

_Maybe if Maddie's too queasy to eat, I can invite J.J. after all…? Or maybe the Thayers' son; he's about Rose's age… No, that'd work if Rose was single, but she's engaged… The Duff-Gordons? No, that doesn't work, they're a couple. Dammit, most everyone's a couple on this ship! Where am I gonna find one person who doesn't already have luncheon plans?_

I was up on the fore of boat deck when I saw him. Mr. Andrews was standing alone at the front railing. He watched as his ship, recently departed from Queenstown, Ireland, sailed into the open Atlantic. The weather had improved since morning; the air was clear and bracing, the sky brilliantly blue. Mr. Andrews stood tall and proud, with a look of complete rapture on his face. _How long has he been standing here? _I wondered.

_Maybe long enough to have missed luncheon in the dining saloon?_

"Just takin it in, Mr. Andrews?"

He nodded in greeting. Then after one last glance at the bow, he turned to me. "Afternoon, Mrs. Brown."

"I guess when everything's finally come together, you gotta just stand back and appreciate the finished product for a little while?"

"For a moment, yes." He paused thoughtfully. "Is that how you felt when the cathedral in Denver was finished last year?"

_He remembered that from yesterday? _I smiled. "Sorta. But I just raised a buncha money for it. It's not like I actually helped _build_ the thing." My remark had him flabbergasted. I didn't care; he deserved the flattery. "I'm off to a luncheon with some 'masters of the universe', care to join me?"

"It'd be my pleasure, Mrs. Brown." He didn't grin openly again, but those Irish eyes of his were certainly smiling.

I'd found the perfect sixth.


	6. Never A Dull Moment

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Scene from Cameron's film:** Between "She is the largest moving object…" and Ismay asking if Freud's a passenger; also, the image of Rose jerking away from Cal on the promenade. (Margaret's joke about calling ships "she" was omitted from the final film, but it's in the IMSDB script.) Also, there's some overlap with events covered in "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 2: Open Sea, Narrow People)

**VI. Never a Dull Moment**

"I trust you are all enjoying your voyage aboard _Titanic _thus far. She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history. And our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up!"

Besides the obligatory introductions, those were the first words I ever heard uttered by J. Bruce Ismay. I will never forget those words; in hindsight, they capture his unbelievable arrogance perfectly.

At the end of his little gloat, Ismay gestured for Tom to speak up. (Mr. Andrews and I had established ourselves on a first-name basis by now.) Seated beside me in the Café Parisian, the Irishman was so self-effacing that if I hadn't gotten to know him some the day before, I probably would have thought his modesty a farce. "Well, I may have knocked her together," he started quietly, fiddling with his ever-present notebook. "But the idea was Mr. Ismay's."

Ismay, the gall of him, nodded towards Tom as if to say, _That's good, son; keep going. _But if he expected Tom to keep singing his personal praises, he was sorely surprised when the architect instead launched into rhapsodies about the ship itself.

"He envisioned a steamer… so _grand _in scale…" He was gesturing again, and happily staring at no one in particular. "So _luxurious _in its appointments… that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is!" He smacked the table for emphasis. "Willed into solid reality!"

"Here, here!" The other two men grunted in appreciation. Ismay was seated at the head of our table, nose in the air, hair and mustache slicked to perfection. Hockley sat beside him, leaning back with his arms on the wicker armrests, looking like a king on his throne.

Can you blame my inner feminist for wanting to speak up? "Why do they always call ships 'she?'" I demanded. "Is it because the men think half the women around here have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?" The men laughed, but Tom was quieter than the other two.

Rose and Ruth weren't laughing; they were too busy whispering over Rose smoking a cigarette at the table. Mildly scandalous for a woman in 1912! Defiant, Rose blew smoke in her mother's face. Ruth simply blinked in irritation.

Cal reached over and snatched the cigarette from Rose's hand, snubbing it out. And then he ordered her meal for her! "You like lamb, don't you, sweetpea?" he cooed after the fact. She flashed him a smile that even I could tell was fake. Surely he knew her too well to be fooled… didn't he?

Emboldened by my first joke's success, I blurted, "You gonna cut her meat for her too, there, Cal?"

This time, I was the only one laughing. Rose's beau looked confused and hurt. Oops.

"Hey, uh," I cleared my throat. "Who thought of the name _Titanic_?" I teased the ship's owner: "Was it _you, _Bruce?"

"Why yes, actually," he answered, in all seriousness and in full, preening glory. Tom and I both stifled laughter. "I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury, and above all, strength."

Rose smirked at him thoughtfully. "Do you know of a Dr. Freud, Mr. Ismay? His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of particular interest to you."

I could nevertop _that_ for the best witty, feminist joke of the meal. Or of the entire voyage, probably! I grinned, Tom quietly chortled. The rest of our table was not so amused. The two kings in the corner scowled as Ruth reprimanded the girl, then apologized to us all when Rose stomped out.

"She's a pistol, Cal," I remarked. "Hope you can handle her!"

"Well, I may have to start minding what she reads from now on, won't I, Mrs. Brown?"

I smarted at Hockley's controlling sexism, and found myself praying he didn't read French. _L'Aveu, _the Bernhardt play I gave Rose at breakfast,is about a woman on the brink of suicide over the secret of her child's true paternity. A man who can't appreciate Freud's theories would most certainly censure that!

Ismay broke the ice by naively asking if Freud was a passenger on _Titanic_. Cal got up and chased after Rose, and Ruth stared after them both. That left me with only one safe choice of a conversation partner at the entire table. "So, Tom, you got a family waitin for ya back in Ireland?" I asked, knowing by the band on his ring finger that he at least had a wife.

Ismay cut in with a list of Tom's family members' accomplishments. If you know anything about the families of Pirrie and Andrews in Northern Ireland, you'll know that was a _long _list. But then, the shipbuilder finally spoke for himself:

"Why yes, Molly, I do. My wife, Helen, is in my humble opinion the brightest, loveliest woman in all of Ireland. And we have a baby daughter, Elba, turned a year old this past November."

"Really, Andrews! How is it we've worked together all this time and I never knew you had a daughter?" Ismay sounded displeased at being out of the loop.

Tom surprised me by answering Ismay with biting sarcasm. "Well, since Elba has yet to attain prominence in business or politics…"

"I bet she's a real cutie, huh, Tom?" I said, consciously running damage control. We'd already had enough excitement in this meal, and the stewards had yet to bring out our main orders! As I spoke, I looked out the window. Hockley approached Rose on the promenade. She wrenched away from his touch on her shoulder.

"She's the prettiest babe in all the world, Molly, I can assure you," Tom beamed. Ismay swiftly attacked, with feigned confusion about the pronunciation and origins of Tom's daughter's name. He called it "some sort of Irish name," forcing Tom to explain that it was a nickname derived from her initials: "Her full name is Elizabeth Law Barber Andrews."

Now there was a lengthy socialite moniker if I ever heard one! But "Elizabeth"was a good first name- after the Virgin Queen, an incredibly strong and intelligent woman. Plus, the nickname "Elba" was just adorable, especially in Tom's slight brogue.

Cal returned with Rose. As the stewards brought our orders, I muttered a reassurance to the ship's designer: "Never a dull moment, huh, Tom?" Then, once again trying to lighten the mood of the meal, I pulled out a locket where I kept a small photograph. "This is the little one in mylife right now," I announced. "My first grandson, Lawrence Brown Jr."

I passed the locket around the table. Ismay and Hockley gave only cursory glances. Rose looked longer, but remained as blank as when I found her in the swimming bath that morning. Ruth cooed over the photograph politely. Tom then took a look, fascinated.

"He looks to be newly born in this picture, Molly."

"He was only a few days old," I chuckled. "They took this picture as soon as they could and sent it to Grandmama in New York. He's four months old now… sick as a dog, poor thing."

Tom looked sympathetic as he handed me back my locket. The rest of the table watched dispassionately, or paid attention to their food instead. "Have ye seen him in person yet?" he quietly asked.

"Not yet. In fact, that's why I'm headed back to the States now."

He nodded, then flipped open his notebook to the front cover pocket. He pulled out two photographs and handed them to me. "That's Elba; it's fairly recent," he explained of the first picture. A fair-haired, full-faced toddler stared at the camera, slouched petulantly in the corner of a formal sofa.

"Oh, Tom, she's beautiful!"

"She is, though I can't take any credit for that; it's all from her mum," he smiled.

I remember noticing the light crow's feet when he smiled, and thinking, _He's a bit older and 'distinguished' for a first-time dad, but still just as eager as a twenty-five-year-old._

"This one's all four of us. It's a bit outdated, from last year…" The second picture was probably taken in their backyard. Tom stood with Elba balanced against his hip. She was much smaller here, practically engulfed in flowing white baby clothes, with the guileless stare of a young and curious infant. He was looking down at her, smiling. Helen stood beside them, gazing warmly at Tom. From this picture I gathered that Helen was a pretty woman, dark-haired, maybe a little on the plump side.

"You have a lovely family, Tom… Did ya say 'all _four _of us', though?"

"Oh, right I did," he chuckled. He pointed to a black blur in the background on the lawn. "That's Laddie: the family dog, and Elba's best pal in the world."

Ismay watched us silently, utensils stopped still over his roast beef, staring in horror as if his ship's builder had just sprouted an extra head. Ruth nervously waited for more drama to unfold. Cal relished his lamb.

Rose neither scoffed at her mother and fiance, nor smiled at us two old fogies swapping baby pictures. In fact, she didn't react to anything. Her lamb was untouched except for a few polite bites, her salad and seltzer water just as neglected. She stared out over Tom's shoulder. I turned to see what had caught her attention. Past the cafe's wide, vine-lined windows, there was only empty sky.

(line)

That afternoon, I called a steward to help me put up the Abbéma. I stood and admired the painting for a moment, looking at the happy rowing companions and thinking, _It's good to have true friends in this treacherous world._

I thought of Tom as a friend already. It takes a certain degree of trust and liking for a _man _to share multiple family photographs with a new acquaintance. I thought of Rose as a friend too, though I didn't quite know what to make of her. She reminded me of my Helen in some ways. A penchant for the theater, bright red hair, defiance towards her mother…

I spent much of the afternoon in my stateroom. I tried to come up with a brief message to wire to Helen:

DEAR HELEN, ALL IS WELL, PLEASE WIRE WITH ANY NEWS FROM MISSOURI…

_No, she'll accuse me of nagging if I send that…_

DEAR HELEN, HOPE YOUR FRIENDS ARE WELL…

_No, I'll never hear the end of how I "interrogated" her on her social life from the middle of the Atlantic…_

DEAR HELEN, MAKING NEW FRIENDS ABOARD…

…"_without you," she'll read, and think I'm being petulant about her staying behind. For heaven's sake! Can't I write anything remotely useful today?_

So I spent most of the afternoon drafting a description of the Pyramids of Giza for my next travel essay.

I checked in on J.J. and Maddie Astor, and we went to dinner together in the dining saloon. Tom came in a bit late, looking preoccupied about something. I waved him over to sit with us. Besides J.J. pestering him a bit with business and politics, he could eat (and scribble in his notebook) in peace at our table for four. _There's probably a minor problem with the ship, _I figured. Tom didn't seem eager to talk about it, and I wouldn't want to frighten Maddie unnecessarily, so I resisted the temptation to pry.

Overall the meal was quite pleasant, the food succulent as usual. Maddie and I lingered and talked with some other ladies, (the DeWitt Bukaters not among them,) after J.J. and Tom had disappeared into the smoking room. Then I escorted Maddie back to her cabin, and retired to my own. Despite my best attempts to eat light, I felt bloated, sleepy and content.

While I was fast asleep by ten and soon having pleasant dreams, little did I know, one of my newfound "true friends" was on the brink of throwing herself off the ship.

(line)

**A/N: **Both the pictures that Tom shows Molly are based on real photos. You can find the first by Google searching "Barbour/Andrews/Harland photo archives" and clicking on the first result. (Fanfic has wised up to putting spaces in-between urls, so I can't give a direct link, sorry.) You can find the inspiration for the second one on the Wikipedia page on Thomas Andrews; the dog isn't pictured in that one, but I changed that detail for fun. :-)


	7. You'll Survive This

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**VII. You'll Survive This**

_Oh God! Have pity on me. Let me die. Send me to the place where lost souls are tormented… What a miserable coward; all I can do is cry and lie… lie incessantly. But I am good at that…_

_-_From _L'Aveu, _by Sarah Bernhardt

(line)

Friday, 12 April, began as a quiet morning. I read in my stateroom before taking breakfast alone in the a la carte restaurant. I planned to then go to the gymnasium and try out the boxing equipment for my daily exercise. After luncheon I might spend the afternoon with Maddie Astor, or with Rose DeWitt Bukater…

My plans changed over breakfast, however, when my ears were piqued by the cashiers' gossip: "Well, isn't she engaged to the richest man on board?"

"The _second _richest, only after John Jacob Astor." The other cashier sounded quite proud of knowing this. "But Mr. Hockley's much younger and more _handsome_ than Mr. Astor."

If gossips are like snakes, then these tongue-wagging working-class gals were garden snakes. Intimidating at first glance, but harmless. You see, they could say whatever they wanted and never really mar someone's reputation, since no one of importance would actually listen to them.

Which was exactly what made them more honest than first-class folks.

"Oh, my!" the first cashier giggled. Then, suddenly bitter: "Isn't it always the ones who have it all, who want to just throw it away? _I'd_ be much happier, or at least grateful, if I had a suitor like hers."

I set aside my grapefruit juice and the last of my wheat toast, hanging on their every word.

"How did she try to do it?" The second cashier lowered her voice. I listened even harder. "Poison?"

"Oh, no, she was _far _more dramatic. Almost threw herself off the stern."

"My God! …But are you sure it wasn't an accident? Maybe she slipped…"

"Well, that's the official story… but the fiance's valet was in here afterwards. Handsome older chap, very quiet, but I got him talking…"

"Since you have _such _a talent for that-" the one teased the other.

"_Shush!_ Anyhow, he said it didn't quite add up, her story of slipping suddenly…"

"You know, I'd take his word over hers any day; she seems rather hysterical. I saw her stomp out of here at luncheon yesterday, and argue with the fiance right out on deck! I don't know why he puts up with her…"

"You'd rather he put up with _you, _eh?..."

They launched into some nauseating fawning over Hockley, while I sat in shock. What had happened to Rose last night? Was she alright now? Did she really try to do what these two girls said she did?

A sudden thought nearly brought my austere little breakfast back up again: _The play that I gave her yesterday has a suicidal protagonist._

Dear God.

My meddling streak got the better of me; I _had _to see firsthand if she was alright.

(line)

"Oh, good." None other than Rose's mother answered the door of Hockley's suite, one of the richest aboard. Wasting no pleasantries on little old me, she continued, "I'm taking tea with Lady Duff-Gordon in ten minutes. Rose refuses to come, and I've been told not to leave her alone, as she's a bit… unwell. Cal and his man are busy, and the maid is tardy in returning from her breakfast." Finishing her speech, she blinked rapidly and gave me a false little smile of entreaty.

Realization dawned. _Well isn't this something! Ruth DeWitt Bukater treating me like a replacement maid! _Sarcasm got the better of me. "Aw, shucks, Ruth!" I replied with an exaggerated drawl. "Why, I'd be pleased as punch to keep little Rose company!"

Ruth turned and picked up a tasseled pocketbook off an ebony end table. "Rose! Mrs. Brown is here to see you!" she called into an open doorway. She nodded at me, blinked some more, then pushed past me into the hall. She _might _have murmured "thank you" on her way out.

The Hockley sitting room was nearly as big as the Astors' entire suite. While most first-class accommodations had mahogany furniture and oak paneling, this room had ebony furniture, and mahogany paneling with gold embellishments. Beyond gold brocade draperies, I saw the wicker furniture and potted palms of the suite's private promenade.

I heard a lullaby tinkling from the next room, and I walked over to the doorway. Rose's stateroom was small, but featured wall-to-wall carpet, a queen-size four-poster bed with curtains, a towering mahogany bureau and a vanity. She sat before the vanity in a long, flowing nightie, her hair loose and softly combed. She was staring at her reflection. _L'Aveu _sat on the vanity, beside an open music box.

"Mornin, Rose," I called gently. She answered with one slow blink. "Can I come in?" Rose needed to feel some control over her life right now; I would not intrude on her. If she didn't want me there, I would wait in the opulent sitting room until the maid returned, only because she couldn't be left alone.

She nodded. "Yes, Molly."

I sat on the end of her bed, and felt myself sink into a sea of down comforters. "Ya know," I pretended to be light and conversational. "I've been thinkin… Maybe I can lend ya somethin else to read, besides _L'Aveu._"

She turned to me, eyes flashing in anger. A part of me was glad that at least she wasn't blank. "You think I'm _fragile, _don't you?" She demanded. "I've already finished reading it, Molly. And besides, a silly book didn't make me-"

"Miss Rose?" chirped a high, feminine voice in the sitting room. "I'm sorry, Miss." A working-class English accent. "I'm still a touch seasick…"

"It's quite alright, Trudy," Rose called. "You go and rest awhile. I'll let you know if Mrs. Brown and I need anything." Trudy peeked in the stateroom doorway. I smiled and waved. "Well, go on, Trudy."

"Thank you, Miss." The maid curtsied out.

I was still dealing with the surprise of Rose dismissing her maid instead of me, when she muttered, "I don't want you treating me like I'm made of glass, Molly. You of all people should know better."

"Should I?" I retorted. "Because I'm not so sure. You're strong, Rose, and very smart. But I see things in you that… _worry_ me." Even as I spoke, the haughty jut of her chin weakened. Her eyes began shining. "I've heard different stories about your accident last night… I don't know which to believe."

I don't remember quite how it happened, but soon her defenses broke. Like something out of a theater drama, she was flung across her bed, moaning about the woeful events building up to her current plight. I gently rubbed her back and made "shhh" noises, patient and maternal.

She told me about her father, who she described as "a wonderful man with a horrible gambling problem." She told me how she missed his booming laughter, the smell of his pipe smoke, his encouragement of her wit and talents…

He had died suddenly, three years prior. Rose was at boarding school at the time, and her mother, concerned about distracting Rose from her studies, decided to not even tell the girl until just before she came home for term break. Ruth's plan fell through, of course. The hardest Rose cried that entire morning was when she told me, "I learned of his death through the _newspapers!_"

I had sent two children and three nieces to boarding schools in their youth. I knew what it was like to keep bothersome news out of a student's earshot until after final exams had passed. But _her father's death? _I felt deeply for Rose. How could her mother do such a thing?

She told me about meeting Cal at a Philadelphia society ball, "So soon afterwards, that Mother and I were still wearing all black." At first Rose had enjoyed Cal's affections; he was a charming suitor, and he seemed generous and protective. By the time she realized he was more possessive than protective, and generous only with his funds and not his feelings, it was too late. Her mother had noticed Mr. Hockley's special brand of generosity as well.

With the DeWitt Bukater women swimming in shameful debt, Ruth saw the courtship as an escape hatch. She forbid Rose to break it off, and no friend or relative of either sex was close enough to intervene…

Josephine, I'm sure you'll think this story sounds like something out of a cheap romance novel set in more quaint, restrictive times. It sounded that way even in 1912, let me tell you. But it wasn't _entirely _out of the scope of possibility, and it added up perfectly with everything I had seen and heard of Hockley, Rose's mother, and Rose herself. So I knew it was all, sadly, true.

Once Rose finished crying herself out, she told me about the kindly young steerage passenger who talked her back over the ship's rail the night before: "He must have been terrified, but he never faltered, Molly. And when I really did slip, he pulled me back over, single-handedly… He saved my life twice in under five minutes!"

And so she had walked out of one tawdry romance plot and right into another! Still, I was glad _someone _had rescued her. I smiled and nodded as she told me how she planned to seek out the young man and thank him later that day. Cal had invited him to first-class dinner, but she told me that would be more of a joke. I was proud of her for wanting to ensure that the fellow received true appreciation for his heroism.

Finally, she pushed herself up off the covers and smiled at me, her eyes red and puffy. "Goodness, Molly, here I've wailed about my problems for hours on end, and you've said next to nothing…"

"Well, it is unusual for me to be this quiet," I joked. "But I can see it's whatcha needed, darlin."

She pitched forward on the bed and embraced me. "Oh, Molly!" she sighed. "How is it you've been such a good friend to me, and here we've only known each other for two days?"

I wondered the same thing- and concerning more than one new friendship. I had always been known for being gracious, but I don't think anyone who met me in recent years would describe me like Rose just did. A charming conversation partner or hospitable hostess, yes… but not a fast friend!

"Listen, Rose," I said. "This morning's all about you, and makin ya feel right again. So don't mind me… what is it _you_ want?"

"Hmm…" She pulled a face of exaggerated thoughtfulness, rolling her wide eyes up and off to the side. I couldn't help smiling.

"Wanna show me your paintings?" I suggested.

"Yes!" she said zestfully, launching herself off the bed.

I had noticed them on my way in- a stack of canvases leaning against a loveseat, seemingly ignored. Rose, still loose-haired and in her nightie, showed me each of them in detail. Monet, Cassatt, Degas… I believe Rose may have even introduced me to Picasso that morning. We compared each artist's style, and made up stories about the lives of the people in the paintings. We debated over which painting to prop up by her vanity, "to give some color to that maroon room." She decided on a Degas.

"I should show you the painting in my stateroom, sometime," I told her.

"You should, Molly! Who's the artist?"

"Louise Abbéma. Have you heard of her?"

"I have," she said coyly. "Another fan of the Divine Sarah, _hm?_"

I glanced at the gilded Swiss clock on the sitting room mantelpiece. It was almost noon. "Ya fixin to take late lunch in the café again? If not, ya might wanna get dressed…"

"Right. Of course." I turned to go, but then Rose stopped me: "Oh, Molly?"

"Yes, darlin?"

She was suddenly subdued. "I have bruises… from almost falling last night. Trudy will feel pressured to lace my corset as tight as Mother's ordered, and that… that would hurt me right now."

The poor dear! I wasn't quite sure I believed her, concerning her bruises' origin. "Why don't ya just go without?" I asked.

She blushed furiously. "Oh, I couldn't, Molly! I need to lose a little weight… and my posture is _horrific_ without a corset!"

Both statements were awful exaggerations. Still, I obliged her request. Rose had to teach me how to lace the corset. "You can go a _little _tighter, Molly," she teased. I was so afraid of hurting her that I was leaving the darn thing half falling off.

"Seems like an awful bother to get a good figure," I muttered. "Ya know, if yer just concerned about healthy posture, ya oughtta take up boxing instead."

"Boxing!" she laughed. "You can't be serious!"

"I am! It's what I do!" I stuck my chin high in the air, pretending to be indignant. Rose laughed even harder. "And I may need to lose a few pounds, but you can't tell me I don't have _wonderful _posture!"

"That's true… But it's a _men's _sport, Molly!"

"Darlin, there are only two domains in life that are written in stone as men's and women's, and they're who begets the children and who bears them." My words made her gasp, but I saw in the mirror that she looked more intrigued than anything. I continued: "When it comes to everything else, we're all just people_. _They say women shouldn't smoke, or vote, or work outside the home! Well, why in heaven's name not?" I asked. "Next thing ya know, they'll be tellin us we're not allowed to _spit, _or even breathe!" She was howling in laughter.

I helped her with her dress, her makeup, her hair. I told her about the time, while considering mines to buy for a children's charity, that I donned workmen's overalls and went down to collect soil samples myself so that I didn't get swindled. I told her about my days of working on a tobacco farm as a teenager. I told her about making my way onto the first adult learners' roster when Andrew Carnegie opened his university in New York, and my three amazing semesters of language and literature studies there.

"You've lived such a full life, Molly," she marveled. "I must admit I'm a bit envious."

"And it ain't over yet," I grinned. "But don't go gettin jealous of little old me, sweetie; you'll have your time, too."

She sighed as she slipped an ornate dragonfly hairclip into her loose up-do. "I hope so. I really do."

For a moment we just stood before her vanity mirror and looked at ourselves, an odd new pair of friends. She was half a foot taller than me, and infinitely more beautiful. Her outfit was light and airy, mine dark and ruffled. A daughter of Philadelphia "old money," and a daughter of plucky Irish immigrants to Missouri: nonetheless both daughters of God, and therefore sisters of a sort.

I reached out and squeezed her hand. "You'll survive this, Rose," I told her. "You'll find a way. I just know it."

(line)

**A/N: **Yes, every one of Molly's life adventures that she mentions to Rose are things that the real Margaret Brown did. Even taking up boxing for exercise by 1912. :-)


	8. Promenade Walks

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Scene from Cameron's film:** Ruth and the Countess attempting to dodge Molly at tea, and the ladies' interaction with Jack and Rose on the promenade, (including Molly taking Jack under her wing after.) Also, there's some overlap with "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 4: Fast Friends.)

**XIII. Promenade Walks**

I had missed out on the gymnasium that morning, and willingly, but it turns out I would still have more than enough exercise for the day! It all started during luncheon. After watching to make sure Rose joined her mother's table without incident, I noticed Tom sitting in a quiet corner of the saloon, looking as pensive as he had at dinner the night before. Hoping I might be on a roll with this "lifting new friends' spirits" routine, I decided to invite him for a stroll on the boat deck after luncheon, and he accepted.

Now, I know what you're thinking, Josephine. _Mrs. Brown, didn't you notice anything unusual about Titanic's boat deck? Such as a startling lack of boats? _But like any other naïve passenger, I rather enjoyed the uncluttered deck. There were so many things we didn't know at the time, and we never bothered to ask.

Most of us didn't know how many people were aboard, or how many people each lifeboat could carry. We had heard there were extra boats stored elsewhere; we didn't know how many. I was among those who assumed that the ship had enough lifeboats to keep everyone afloat at once. I later learned that others had bought hook, line and sinker into J. Bruce Ismay's press boasts of "an unsinkable ship," and considered lifeboats unnecessary.

As we climbed the stairs from A-deck, I broke the ice by asking Tom, "Ya know why they call me Molly?"

"Of course," he replied. "It's diminutive for Margaret- although it sounds a bit childish at your age, if ye don't mind me sayin so."

"At _my age_?" I playfully wheeled on him. The promenade was sunny, but even Celtic stock like us don't sunburn as quickly as that poor man's face turned red! "Just how old do ya think I am, Tom Andrews?"

He was deadpan. "Thirty-eight."

What a tactfully low guess! "And what makes ya say that?"

"The fact that I've just turned thirty-nine, and to guess my own age or higher might be insultin ye, Molly."

That softened me some. Without fail, Tom was always such a genuine man. I suppose that's what inspired me to be so honest with him: "Yer about six years low, Tom, but I appreciate the compliment. Anyway…"

I explained to him how my friends and family had always called me Maggie. But when J.J. and I moved up in society, some of Denver's Protestant, Pilgrim-descended upper crust heard the name "Maggie" and, well… "Sounded to them like somethin a poor Irish farmer would name his cow."

He briefly shook with laughter, much like he had at Rose's Freud joke.

So while my high-society friends were more comfortable calling me "Molly," I told him that knowing I was still "Maggie" at heart helped me to remember who I was and where I came from. I urged him to keep up his daughter's nickname for the same reason.

He confessed, "I was the one who thought of the nickname. Nellie" (his wife Helen) "liked 'Lizzie', but I thought 'Elba' was more unique, and conveys the full meanin of her name. Nellie accused me of- oh, how did she say it…" he sighed and glanced out to sea as we rounded another corner of the promenade. "Ah, yes," he smiled. "'A seafarin tendency to pare any message down to its shortest possible form,' she said "

He'd pitched his voice higher and singsong when quoting his wife- kind of paternalistic, but endearing I'll admit. "Well with a story like _that _behind it, you _really _gotta keep up the nickname," I told him. "It's about her bein her daddy's little girl." Something I said then must have struck a chord with him, because out of the blue he asked me about Rose. Bless his heart, all he knew was that _something _had happened the night before…

We were the only two passengers on the promenade, so I sat him down and told him the official story, the one where Rose was foolishly leaning over to look at the propellers and she slipped. When I finished, he was gently skeptical: "Leanin' over to look at the propellers?" he repeated.

The truth spilled out of me. Not just Rose's attempted suicide, but how I was frightened by the blank look I sometimes saw in her eyes. She reminded me of a young widow I knew back in Leadville, during the town's worst days.

Annie and I volunteered in the soup kitchens together. Her loving husband, like my J.J., was among the lucky ten percent of the city's workforce that remained employed during the silver crisis. But one day, his work in the mines cost him his life. Annie was polite, even cheerful, during the funeral arrangements; yet there was a kind of emptiness in her eyes, a walking death. Not only had she lost her best friend and helpmeet, but she had little savings, no skills to find work in such a broken economy, and no close kin. In short, she had no hope.

I thought she just needed time to recover, but I was wrong. Two days after the funeral, Annie hung herself.

During this tearful tale, Tom should have edged away from me in his deck chair, or turned tail and run. Instead, when I broke down completely at the end, he embraced me and waited for me to cry it out. It was then that I knew I was dealing with more than an intelligent, humble charmer of a man; Tom Andrews was an uncommonly good soul.

"What I don't understand…" I worked to pull myself together as we began circling the empty deck again. "Is why so many women in our society have so few _options." _I explained how both Rose and Annie would have had more hope if they felt they could make it on their own. Women like Rose needed to be raised to do more than give tea parties, look pretty and make lots of babies; they needed practical skills, for careers of their own!

Tom was merely polite during my feminist rhetoric. He perked up when we began plotting how to cheer up "young Rose," as he quaintly called her, throughout the rest of the voyage. My job was obvious, if not easy: stick to the DeWitt Bukaters like glue, and try to offer Rose a breath of fresh air as her own closest relations suffocated her.

It took some work to think up something that the "master shipbuilder" could do to comfort a seventeen-year-old girl that he barely knew. Finally, Tom suggested giving her and other first-class passengers a guided tour of the ship. I told him Rose was very interested in _Titanic _and would love a tour. God help me, I had no idea whether that was true. But oh, the way he blushed and tried to hide his pleased smile!

We were no longer alone on the promenade, so crying, embracing, and talking about feminism were no longer suitable activities! Still, we had the sort of open, rambling conversation in which the foundation of a lifelong friendship can be laid down in just two hours. Our careers, our families, even our childhood stories were all breached. It was, without a doubt, the loveliest afternoon I had aboard _Titanic. _Soon the sun grew low and orange. Tom dug his pocket watch out of his vest and flipped it open. "4:00," he murmured. "Well, I need to check on a few things before dinner. Thank ye for a lovely time, Molly."

I thanked him in kind, then remarked as he turned to go, "Seems we've become fast friends."

"Seems we have," Tom replied as he slipped his watch back in his pocket.

"So… could ya call me Maggie from now on?"

He knew exactly what I meant by that, and his response was perfect. He tipped his hat to me and said, "Only if ye call me Tommie." That was his own childhood nickname.

I made my way down to the first class reception room. I spotted Ruth DeWitt Bukater just starting her afternoon tea with the Countess of Rothes. Rose was nowhere in sight. The two women scrambled to get up as I approached, but I gave them my best polite smile. "Hello girls! I was hopin I'd catch ya at tea."

"We're so sorry, you missed it," lied Ruth. "The Countess and I were just about to take the air on the boat deck…" They shared a tiny, knowing nod.

_Oh, you gals aren't gettin away that easy, _I remember thinking to myself. _You're nothin compared to some of the reporters and lawyers I've squared off with in Denver._ I effused: "Oh, what a lovely idea! I need to catch up on my gossip."

They set their faces in silent pouts as I followed them outside. Whenever the chatter was not about Rose's engagement, I found my mind wandering- mostly to the conversation I had so recently enjoyed on this same promenade…

Tommie's story of repairing an abandoned rowboat as a boy, paddling her out on Strangford Lough with his brothers, and having them insist on making him the "Admiral" of their little vessel… The zealous gestures and complex jargon whenever he spoke of his work at Harland & Wolff… His story of the first time he proposed marriage to Nellie, taking her aside after a quiet dinner at his folks' house. "She was speechless! Just shocked, as it turns out, but I thought she was horrified. So I ran off and wrote her this _awful, _sappy letter of apology…"

Josephine, I must have been grinned like a fool around the whole promenade.

I tuned in again as Ruth gushed, "He surprised her, at his father's boathouse in Philadelphia, in front of _two hundred people._ With everyone watching, he knelt down on the lawn and proposed! The staff waited in the wings the whole time; they had been cued not to start the Independence Day fireworks or bring out the next round of champagne until the _moment _she said yes!"

Ruth beamed as the Countess cooed her approval. I must admit, it was nice to see Ruth look so alive for once, even if the topic giving her vigor was a little unnerving. I had to wonder which DeWitt Bukater woman was in love with Cal more.

"Rose took forever to respond. The poor dear, he waited in _agony _for a full minute… But when she finally said yes, well, Cal wasthrilled. You could tell by how carefully the party was planned, that his entire family had done it out of love…"

'Carefully' must have been the newest euphemism for 'extravagantly.' I sighed, perhaps louder than I should have. I thought they wouldn't notice. They did, and stopped their leisurely strolls to stare at me.

_Me and my big mouth!_

"Did you say something, Molly?" Ruth blinked innocently, her tone scathing.

I don't know what came over me, Josephine… "Does she love him?" I blurted out.

A faint but distinct intake of breath from them both. Ruth's face, just now flushed with admiration for her future son-in-law, drained back to its customary pallid white. "I… beg your pardon?"

_No use backing down now, I suppose... _I squared my shoulders and steadily repeated: "Does Rose love Cal?"

"Well, you're… um…" If Ruth blinked any faster she'd be in danger of her eyelids falling off. "You're being… rather…"

_What, rude? Presumptuous? New money? __Honest__? _"It's a simple question, Ruth," I said tersely. "Does she love the guy or not?"

"Oh, my!" the Countess shrieked. "I fear I'm feeling a bit flushed up here, with all this direct sunlight…" She frantically waved her silk fan. "What do you say we continue this conversation down on A deck, ladies?"

As we began walking- half-running- after her, the Countess continued to wave her fan, and blathered about the lovely weather, her shopping plans for New York, the state of her gardens back in England… It was a curious sight, Josephine, like watching a trapped butterfly try to beat its way to freedom while quoting from _The Ladies' Home Journal._

We had made half a lap around A deck, and the Countess seemed to have calmed down, when I caught sight of Ruth's next nosebleed."That's _disgusting!" _Rose cried gleefully, as a working-class kid with longish blonde hair hocked an impressive loogie over the side of the ship.

_Is that her hero from yesterday? _I wondered. _Oh, God help us all- is he __teaching__ her to spit?_

Indeed he was. "You gotta really hock it back…" he instructed. Just then, Rose noticed us approaching, and began elbowing him to stop. "Really get some body to it…" He failed to notice her warning until far too late. We were treated to a symphony of uncouth snorts. When the boy finally turned around, he blushed and had to swallow his would-be projectile whole.

"Mother!" Rose squeaked. After a tense pause, she managed, "May I introduce Jack Dawson."

"Charmed, I'm sure."

I noticed Ruth reserved that greeting for those who she considered beneath her. Yesterday at the Café Parisian, she had smiled when Ismay introduced her to Tommie- until she heard his accent. Then she winced openly and purported to be "charmed." Frankly, I was a little insulted that I _hadn't "_charmed" her when we first crossed paths!

I noticed a glimmer on Jack's chin in the setting sun. _You've still got some there, _I gestured. He frantically wiped away the spittle.

"Mr. Dawson here saved me, single-handedly…" Rose was explaining. The Countess was captivated, as Rose unintentionally went into rhapsodies over Jack. They were the only two who were comfortable with this conversation. Ruth fixed a stare on Jack with enough venom to kill small vermin, while Jack squirmed in his suspenders.

"Well, Jack, sounds like you're a good man to have around in a sticky spot," I interrupted. He gave me a small, relieved smile. Just then, the ship's bugler played the dinner call right behind us. We all jumped. "Why do they insist on announcing dinner like a damn cavalry charge?" I said, exasperated.

Rose laughed a bit too gaily at the bad joke, then headed off arm in arm with her mother. "See you at dinner, Jack." Intentional or not, her parting words to him were quite flirtatious. He stared and waved cutely after her.

"Hey, son," I said. He didn't hear me- too busy flirting with an engaged woman. "_Son!_ Do ya have the slightest comprehension what yer doin?" I demanded.

He gave me a goofy smile. My God, he had to be only twenty or so. "No."

"Well, yer about to go into the snakepit." I looked him up and down. His clothes were threadbare. His work boots held a plethora of splatters: mud, sand, coal, motor oil… "What're ya plannin to wear?"

He shrugged, indicating his current attire.

"I figured," I sighed. "Come on."


	9. One's Own Mistakes

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Scenes from Cameron's film:** "You shine up like a new penny!"; Jack and Rose's dinner entrances; and of course the dinner party itself. Also, there's some overlap in this chapter with "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 5: Thomas's Baby.)

**IX. One's Own Mistakes**

"Wow!" Jack gaped when we entered my stateroom. At first I thought it was the luxury of the cabin itself that awed him, but then he gravitated towards the painting hung by my bed. "Is that Abbéma?"

"It is!" I was astounded. Then I noticed a silver smudge on the outside of Jack's pinky. Tommie had one of those, too- the mark of someone who spends a lot of time working with a pencil. "You an artist, Jack?"

He nodded absentmindedly. "Look at the difference in techniques between here, and here." He pointed to the shops in the background of the painting, then waved his hand over the women's faces. "Abbéma's an impressionist at heart, but in the foreground- and especially with people- she knows when to be clean and precise. It's great."

Not a bad observation for a kid in suspenders and dirty boots! Which reminded me: "I'm gonna call a steward to help ya put this on." I opened my wardrobe and pulled out a tuxedo I bought in Paris for my son.

"Alright. Thanks, Molly." Jack gave the suit a quick, indifferent glance, then kept studying the painting.

Down the hall in the bathroom, I changed into a kimono I'd bought in Japan several years earlier. It was a comfortable outfit that I often wore while getting myself trussed up. As I did my hair over the sink, I had a sudden, vivid memory of the last time I'd worn this robe.

I was helping Helen with her hair, the evening before I left Paris. She was going to a youth social, and as soon as I asked if anyone I knew was attending, she began griping about my "meddling." She railed about the time I forbid her and Lawrence to speak to their father about money matters; and how I didn't ask her before booking passage on _Titanic_ for us both. She was particularly exasperated over my encouraging her to respond to the letters of a rather devoted suitor. "You, of all people, pushing me to _marry,_" she had scoffed.

"Helen, you know it's not like that! I'll be supportive no matter what ya tell George, but please, tell him _something! _It's been a year now, and all you've done is string him along!" I put my hands on my hips. My family knows I mean business when I do that; Helen squirmed guiltily, toying with her auburn curls. "I just don't want ya makin a serious mistake, is all."

What she said next caught me off guard: "Didn't everyone say Lawrence and Eileen were making a mistake, getting married? And you and Father, back in the day? But you went ahead and did it anyway, and look what came of it!" She held her chin high. "So, perhaps it's myturn to make my _own_ mistakes."

'_Look what came of it,' indeed, _I thought as I finished my evening hairdo, alone on the great ship. _Lawrence and Eileen make each other miserable half the time… But they still love each other. J.J. and I are separated… But we had a good run. Two happy decades and a lovely family came out of that "mistake." _I sighed. _Maybe Helen's right._

I returned to my stateroom to find the steward fixing Jack's bow tie. I tipped and dismissed him. I sat Jack down at my vanity and styled his hair, asking him about his family to make chatter. That was a short conversation. Jack had no siblings. His folks were kindly, poor farmers who worked too hard and died too young, leaving him an orphan with no close kin at the tender age of fifteen.

My heart went out to Jack. My colleague Ben Lindsey and I worked with far too many children who started out in situations like his, and ended up on the wrong side of the law. But Jack had "pulled himself up by his bootstraps," as they say. Five years later, he was still as poor as they come, but he had worked an impressive variety of jobs, and traveled the world doing so. He was working in a pub in Southampton and selling his drawings for extra cash when he won his ticket aboard _Titanic_ in a card game.

I helped him into the tuxedo coat. He and my Lawrence were just about the same size. A little hair mousse and a nice tux went a long way in turning an instructor in the art of projectile spitting into a fine young gentleman! Though I shouldn't have been too surprised; Jack was rather quiet and polite, when he wasn't busy flirting with Rose.

"You shine up like a new penny!" I marveled. He just smiled, as I laughed openly at our triumph. Those stuck-up masters of the universe wouldn't know what hit 'em!

(line)

As Jack took a breather on the promenade before facing the snakepit, I finished getting ready alone, then set off, mentally preparing myself for the tiresome ritual.

Properly entering a first-class dinner on _Titanic _was a half-hour affair, at the least. People often took back passages up to boat deck, just so they could enter the Grand Staircase at its highest level, bathe in the frosty light emitted from behind the glass dome, and make their grand entrance in front of Honor and Glory Crowning Time. Then they would leisurelywaft down to D deck, all the while shaking men's hands and kissing ladies'. The men swapped smug political jokes while the ladies vapidly fluttered their decorative fans and chattered about the opera.

The schmoozing would continue in the reception room for some time, while the ship's orchestra serenaded us with "Poet and Peasant" or "The Blue Danube." Only once we had properly reassured each other of our grand standing in the world, could we proceed into the dining saloon. There we would endure further trivialities before, eventually, actual food would appear. Yes, Josephine, this was the _daily _routine.

Tommie and I stood in a quiet corner of the A-deck landing. I watched Jack enter from boat deck, staring at his opulent surroundings in awe, trying his darndest to look natural. _He's so nervous, _I remember thinking. _Why'd he even agree to come to this joke of a thank-you dinner? Something tells me it wasn't a hankering for caviar._

I nudged Tommie, who, as usual, was lost in thought over his notebook. "That's my son's suit Jack's wearin," I bragged as the boy walked down to A deck. "Ain't he spiffy?"

Tommie's eyebrows arched in surprise. "Indeed he is! Oh, look." He kept his voice low. I leaned in close. "He's learnin the etiquette as he goes." We watched as Jack slouched against a pillar, then noticed the other men standing tall and righted himself. He silently mimed their postures and greeting rituals. "Poor lad," Tommie sighed.

"_Smart _lad is more like it," I muttered. Ruth and Cal passed Jack by, apparently not recognizing him. Rose floated down the stairs after them, regal, shimmering, and tightly corseted. As soon as she recognized Jack, she unwittingly smiled big enough to light up the whole room, if the lights Tommie had installed behind the ceiling dome weren't already doing the job. "Will ya get a load a that!" I grinned.

"My God, she looks _stunned,_" Tommie whispered.

"So does he!" We watched gleefully as Rose came level with the bronze cherub at the foot of the stairs. Jack took her gloved hand and kissed it, his gesture slowed and exaggerated to comic effect.

"Now where do ye suppose he learned to do _that_?" Tommie chuckled. The two youngsters began walking arm in arm. Jack stuck his nose so high in the air that all three of us snorted in repressed laughter.

I watched as Rose formally introduced Jack to Cal and Ruth. Her mother was as cold as ever, while Cal guffawed over Jack "almost passing for a gentleman." The nerve of them both! Tommie had stopped people-watching and was engrossed in his notes again. I left him to his architectural jottings. I had to get down to D-deck, to keep an eye out in case things got ugly.

J. Bruce Ismay charged past me. As I rounded the corner at the stairs, I snuck a glimpse back at him and Tommie. The businessman actually reached up and snapped the architect's book shut in his face. They exchanged glares. Through all the ambient noise, I heard Ismay muttering: _Formal dinner etiquette, Thomas…_

I would imagine that, were it not for his actions a mere two days later, my impressions of J. Bruce Ismay would have remained rather benign. He was certainly, as his own countrymen might say, "an arrogant prick," but that's not unusual in those social circles. To his credit, I believe he appreciated Tommie's genius, and honestly wanted to help cultivate the shipbuilder's career. Though the way he went about it was grossly ineffective, given Tommie's personality:

"He knows every rivet in her, don't you, Thomas?" he teased when Rose asked Tommie something about the ship. He boldly proclaimed to our dinner party of a dozen: "His blood and soul are in this ship! She may be mine on paper, but in the eyes of God, she belongs to Thomas Andrews."

Ismay spoke the truth, but I was seated next to Tommie, and I could see him squirming in his chair. Rose quietly complimented him on _Titanic_ once more, and that seemed to lift his spirits some. Like I've said before, Josephine: I don't think any man was impervious to Rose's beauty.

Jack was seated at my other side. "Are these all for me?" he whispered, nervously eyeing the menagerie of silverware surrounding his fine china.

I gave him the same advice I received when J.J. and I first ascended the social ranks: "Just start from the outside and work yer way in."

During dinner, poor Jack got picked over by those first-classers like carrion by a flock of vultures. They were all astounded that a young man "of limited means" managed to travel so extensively, and they wanted to know all about the people he had met, the jobs he had taken to get by, the places he had been forced to sleep when he was particularly low on funds.

Jack weathered their curiosity with admirable poise, and even proposed a lovely toast: "To make each day count!" Everyone, even old J. Bruce, was quite genial towards him. Everyone, that is, except Ruth and Cal.

Ruth seldom spoke that evening except to interrogate Jack. "Tell us about the steerage accommodations, Mr. Dawson; I hear they're quite good on this ship… How is it that you have means to travel?... And you find that sort of rootless existence _appealing_, do you?..." Her tone was acrid, her unblinking stare cold and reptilian. As he responded to each thinly-veiled insult with winsome charm, her glare only became more lethal.

Cal spent more time staring at his fiancée than the steerage boy, which made sense. The more Jack spoke, the more Rose snuck witty jokes and compliments his way. Cal got his jabs in, though. "A real man makes his own luck," he smirked after Jack mentioned how he got his ticket on _Titanic._ Later, as the men were heading for the smoking room and Jack declined to go, he snidely assured the youngster: "All business and politics, that sort of thing. Wouldn't interest you."

Tommie whispered to me before getting up, "Doesn't really interest me either, and yet _I_ still have to go." Beneath the table, I quickly squeezed his hand in comfort. _Goodnight, my friend. Don't let the rattlesnakes bite._

Awhile later, as the ladies' conversation wound down, I announced, "I'm off to the reading and writing room for awhile, any of you gals care to join me?" I looked directly at Rose. She had been quiet since Jack left, her heavy-lidded eyes sparkling with joyful secrets. I didn't think it wise to leave her alone just yet- or in the care of her mother. I was still aware of the previous night's events. And people's moods are often at their most volatile at night.

Rose was the only one to follow me out, silently floating in a blissful daze. The reading and writing room was deserted once again. We sat near the fore window. "Molly, what time is it?"

I pulled out J.J.'s old watch. "Quarter after ten, sweetie."

She glanced back over her shoulder at the room's attendant, sighed deeply, then thrust a sweaty scrap of paper into my hand. I unfolded it and read:

_Make it count. Meet me at the clock at 11._

"I'm going, Molly."

I looked up. Rose was trying to set her delicate chin at a determined angle. Suddenly the light in her eyes had turned fierce.

"I know what you're going to say." Her voice trembled slightly. "That he's a nice boy, but that this is… a _mistake. _That I don't know what might happen. And that's all true, Molly, but… I _need _to make that mistake for myself."

I handed her back the paper, closed my eyes and shook my head. _Heavenly Father, forgive me my foolishness!_ "I understand, Rose." She sighed in relief. I warned her, "But they'll come lookin for ya."

She ducked her head. "I know…" Then she looked up at me out of the corners of her eyes. "I have an idea," she whispered imploringly. "Can you help me?"

(line)

**A/N: **Fun fact: the "George" Margaret mentions to Helen was not only a real suitor of Helen Brown's, but her future husband, George Benzinger. They met while sailing across the Atlantic (no kidding) in 1911. They married in 1913.


	10. Beauty Is Timeless

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**X. Beauty is Timeless**

Rose and I set up an elaborate goose chase for Ruth, Hockley, the valet, or whoever else might come looking for her. First we exited the reading and writing room while loudly declaring our intentions to have a nice chat over coffees at the Café Parisian. In the café, we swigged our coffees at top speed. We made sure that the chatty cashiers were within earshot as we wondered aloud whether the office for posting wireless messages was still open at this hour.

Time was of the essence, so we skipped actually going to the wireless office. Instead, I stood at the A-deck entrance to the Grand Staircase while Rose approached Jack, who waited for her in front of the famous clock. I kept a sharp eye out for any of Rose's keepers, and smiled and waved to the few passengers still out and about. I pretended not to notice the rich girl and peasant boy descending the staircase together.

Then I sauntered, casual-if-you-please, into the nearby first-class lounge. I pulled aside a young, gullible-looking steward. "Ya know who Rose DeWitt Bukater is?"

He grinned. "We all do, madam. She's a real beauty, that one."

I slipped him ten dollars, making sure he saw the bill's denomination. _Buy yerself somethin nice in New York, sonny._ "If anyone asks later, I was in here shootin the breeze with her, and _just left_ to escort her back to her suite, got it?"

"Yes, madam!"

I've never smoked much. But at the time I kept a few cigarettes and a lighter with me, in case I needed to take the edge off as I cut back on mealtime indulgences. Now that I was wound up on caffeine and conspiracy, I went out on the empty A-deck promenade and had a smoke to calm my nerves. It was warm for April in the North Atlantic, and the starry night was far more dazzling than any view on land. I let myself get lost in the scene. Therefore, I didn't notice Ruth DeWitt Bukater until she was at my side.

"Good evening, Molly."

"Ruth!" I squeaked. "Um, fancy seein you here!" Hospitality overtook logical thought, and I dug into my purse. "Wanna smoke?"

She recoiled from the proffered cigarette as if it were a used wad of snuff. Her voice was icy: "I was wondering if you might inform me of my daughter's whereabouts."

"Who, Rose?"

If her nostrils flared any farther, she'd be in danger of giving herself a nosebleed. "Do I have_ another_ daughter, Mrs. Brown?"

I snorted in nervous laughter. "Nope! Silly me! Well, gee, Ruth… I can't say where Rose might be. She's an independent spirit, ya know…"

"Oh, stop it, Molly," she growled. She stepped uncomfortably close to me, her fists balled. I did not expect _that._ Now I had no idea what she might do next. "You meddle far more than you let on, and don't think I don't notice." Flecks of furious spittle hit my face. Ruth's eyes were bright, her cheeks dark. "Now tell me, _where is she_?"

I drew a blank, Josephine. The first foolish thought to come to mind was: _I can outrun her._

"Molly? …MOLLY!" Ruth stormed after me as best she could, but her efforts were futile after a lifetime in a corset. "Margaret Brown!" she barked. "Come back here this instant!"

I laughed at her scolding me like a child. There was no danger of her overtaking me, and still I broke from a jog into a full run down the deck. Just to feel the wind on my face!

"Molly, tell me where Rose is _now!_" Her shrieks grew hysterical. "MOLLY, GET BACK HERE!"

I whooped in reckless abandon, like a schoolgirl running barefoot through the grassy fields of Missouri! And then, (serves me right,) my left ankle rolled off my fancy high heels. I fell, landing hard on my left hand. As I collected myself, Ruth gained considerable ground. Triumph mingled in her harsh commands: "Molly, you will tell me where Rose is _right this instant _or I will have Lovejoy take you to the Master at Arms-"

I bolted up and ran into the aft Grand Staircase, seeking shelter. Thanks to a nasty frostbite years prior, I didn't have enough sensation in my feet to tell whether I had seriously injured my ankle. My hand sure hurt something fierce, though! I needed to hide and let Ruth pass me by, and then seek attention for my injuries…

I spotted an unmarked door off to the side of the Staircase. _Probably a linen closet, _I reasoned. Perfect. I rattled the doorknob. Was it locked? Then, mercifully, it gave way.

"_Maggie?_"

Tommie opened the door, bow tie in hand and vest half unbuttoned. "What're ye-?" he started, irritated. But the sight of my disheveled hair and ginger, one-legged stance softened him. "Well come in," he grumbled.

He shut the door. We could hear Ruth in the hallway. She was polite once indoors, knowing that people might overhear. She was no less insistent, though: _Molly? I need to speak with you. This is very serious, Molly. I know you're avoiding me… _Tommie and I stood stock still until her voice faded away. Bless him for not ratting me out!

He pulled some rolled-up blueprints off a nearby armchair, then let me lean against his side as I hopped over and took a seat. I observed my surroundings. We were in a large room with navy carpeting, light oak paneling, and a view of the promenade. A large mahogany desk by the windows was covered in blueprints and notes. There was a phonograph in the far corner, a wardrobe with Tommie's dinner tuxedo hanging on the door, and a single bed. Next to me, a long, narrow table held a scale model of _Titanic._

Obviously, this was no linen closet; I had just wandered into Tommie Andrews' stateroom!

"So! Runnin away from Rose's mum," he smiled down at me. My face grew hot. "Fair enough. She's a right frightening one, isn't she?" My left hand throbbed. I turned it over and found a massive splinter; my entire palm was swelling and turning red. "Did mypromenade do that to ye?" he asked, concerned.

"I reckon it did."

"Good heavens…!"

He rummaged through his nightstand for some tweezers and a pair of glasses, then took the chair in front of his desk and spun it around, sitting down before me. The glasses gave him an older, more dignified appearance. Suddenly he looked every bit the part that he'd told me his uncle, Lord William Pirrie, was grooming him for: chairman of Harland & Wolff.

"Here." He drew my hand close, squinting as he aimed the tweezers. "Last summer…" he murmured slowly, focused on his task. "Elba got her very first bee sting…"

He firmly grabbed the splinter on his first try, and pulled hard. I winced, then sighed with relief as it came out whole and clean. The wound began to bleed some. Tommie got up and disappeared into his stateroom's private bathroom.

"Crawlin around on the lawn at Ardara," he continued, light and conversational. Ardara was his parents' home in County Down. "The stinger lodged in her hand and I had to pull it out, just like yer splinter there."

"I'm sure it wasn't one of _your _bees that got her," I teased. On the boat deck earlier, he had told me that he kept bees as a young boy, and the hives were still at Ardara to that day.

"Of course not. My bees have much better manners," he deadpanned as he reappeared with antiseptic, cotton swabs and a bandage.

"Poor thing, she must've screamed somethin awful."

"She and her mum were _both _in a right awful state the rest o' the day." He dabbed antiseptic on my hand. I gasped. "Sorry. Anyways, here's Nellie." As he dressed the wound, he used his singsong voice for quoting his wife: "'Now she'll _never _want to crawl again, she's had such a fright!' And here's me: 'Nellie, sure she'll never crawl again if ye don't stop fussin and holdin her!'" He chuckled to himself.

I grimaced. _Why does he always have to use that voice to quote her?_

Growing serious again, he asked, "How's your leg?"

"I twisted my ankle. I'm not sure how bad…"

I took off my shoe and pulled up my skirt to investigate. Ever the Edwardian gentleman, Tommie turned away and re-buttoned his vest, rather than glimpse the bare leg of a woman that was not his wife.

"It _seems_ alright. Still hard to say," I reported, and let my skirt drop.

Tommie faced me again. For the briefest moment he stood back and solemnly looked me over, arms crossed, biting his lower lip. The manly breadth of his shoulders was very apparent in a tailored vest. There were sweaty patches on the arms of his dress shirt, and his usually wavy hair was downright curly. I must have stared, because he cleared his throat and nervously explained, "I was just down in the boiler rooms…"

"I should go." As soon as I stood, my ankle gave way. I winced and eased back into the chair.

His brow furrowed. "Perhaps I should call a steward to help you."

"No." That would beg the question of what an unescorted woman was doing in Thomas Andrews' stateroom at nearly midnight! "I'm fine, Tommie, really. It just needs some stabilizin."

I began moving to pull off my pantyhose for use as a makeshift wrap. Tommie ducked into the bathroom again- I thought for modesty's sake, but he emerged with a wrap bandage.

"Ya got a whole first aid kit in there?" I wondered aloud.

"Luck favors the prepared." His tone was light again. He tossed me the bandage and averted his gaze, this time by poring over the papers on his desk.

I joked as I wrapped my ankle, "I hope yer makin note of the splintering promenade issue."

"As we speak." I'm not sure whether he was joking or not. I heard him moving about the cabin, putting a record on the phonograph and setting the needle. The room filled with sweeping, Romantic era music.

I took an educated guess. "Sounds like early Faure."

"That's cos it _is_ early Faure. Maggie, you miss nothing, do you?" I finished with my ankle wrap. He crossed the room again, sitting on the armrest of the desk chair in front of me. "It's my thinking music."

I was genuinely surprised. "You plan out the most technologically advanced ships in the world while listenin to music from the previous century?"

Tommie shrugged. "In case ye haven't noticed, I'm not the most progressive man in the world, when it comes to matters apart from shipbuilding." He gave me a mischievous smile, head cocked. "Maggie, I respect your being a feminist. But I see that look you get when I talk about Helen. You think we're both a bit backward: that I'm too chivalrous for my own good, and she's just a meek little wife and mum."

I averted my gaze. He had hit the nail on the head. It wasn't just his singsong way of quoting her. I only ever mentioned my J.J. in anecdotes, keeping things in the past tense, mixing the good and bad with a heavy dose of the comical. Tommie, on the other hand, had sung Helen's praises unabashedly on the boat deck that day. _I'm a lucky man; she's forever patient when I spend too much time at the shipyard… She's an angel with little Elba… She's beautiful, Maggie, inside and out, and so intelligent… I've never had a truer, more loyal friend…_

"Nellie _chose _that life consciously, as a grown woman," he insisted. "She was twenty-seven when we got married! And I can't tell ye enough that she's _bright, _Maggie. Far better at reading and writing than I am, in fact."

Well. Any man who could admit his wife's literary skills surpassed his own couldn't be _too_ verysexist. "Fair enough," I sighed. "But why're ya tellin me this, Tommie?"

"'Cos right now ye can't run away," he joked, nodding towards my injured foot. "And… I don't like to have misunderstandings between my friends and me."

So there it was. I had said it before, several times, but this was the first that Thomas Andrews actually called me his friend.

The Faure record began a second track. I recognized his "Pavane, Op. 50." Tommie slid into the seat of his chair and studied the model of his ship. It was complete with details like threaded rigging and tiny, balsa wood lifeboats. "Can I tell ye something? About the 'advanced,' 'modern' RMS _Titanic_?"

"Of course."

"She's already not the fastest ship in the world, and I know she's won't remain the largest forever." His voice grew husky as he admitted, "The march of progress is relentless. After I'm gone, if my ships were merely the most technologically advanced for their time, they'll fade into obscurity."

He caressed the miniature ship's hull with more tenderness than some men have for their women. Something about him changed then. The joy in his eyes was so profound, that I believe it came from somewhere far beyond the man himself.

"_If, _on the other hand, they were beautiful…! True beauty is timeless, Maggie. Whether in music, or architecture, or the love between two people. That's what people remember for _centuries._ That's how people will remember your cathedral. And that's how I want them to remember my ships. For their beauty."

He had a point. After all, what causes us to remember the Alhambra, the Pyramids at Giza, the Taj Mahal? We admire these architectural marvels for being ahead of their quaint times, surely. Yet their continuing appeal has much more to do with the artistry of their sculptures and mosaics, the luxury of their furnishings, the way their windows paint scenes with light… their timeless beauty.

On the other hand, what would we think of these marvels if they weren't still standing?

Oh, Josephine! If only _Titanic _was known today primarily for her beauty!

(line)

**A/N:** Maggie's $10 bribe to the steward is the equivalent of about 200 US dollars today, (or 250 euro, or 285 British pounds.) She was always such a generous lady! ;-D Also, that bit about the loss of sensation in her feet from a bout of frostbite is historically true.

I got the idea for the scale model of _Titanic _from the movie's photo book (text by Ed Marsh, see References for details.) In that book, there is a set design drawing of Andrews' stateroom where you can see the smokestacks of the model silhouetted in the foreground, and I thought, "That is too freaking cute; I'm putting it in his stateroom!"

Faure's "Pavane" is a bit of 'self-insert,' in the sense that I included it mostly because it's one of my all-time personal favorites. However, it serves a purpose in this story very well, both in timing (it was written in 1887) and in mood. Just search "Faure Pavane" on Youtube (the vid with the Monet paintings is a particularly nice version) if you're curious.


	11. The Social Code

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information. This chapter compliments, rather than directly overlaps, parts of "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 6: Possessive)

**XI. The Social Code**

Just before noon each day, first-class passengers would gather in the smoking room for the official announcement of how many miles _Titanic _had sailed in the past 24 hours. It was the only time of day that women were permitted in that room, and the event attracted quite a crowd. On Saturday, I decided to go and see what all the fuss was about.

_Titanic_'s most prestigious den of masculinity had Moroccan leather upholstery, dark mahogany paneling, and a real coal fireplace surrounded by ornate Georgian carvings. Of course, the aromas of tobacco and brandy were pervasive. Tinted windows turned the natural light of the room soft and opaque, and they featured a stained glass parade of great ships from throughout history.

_True beauty is timeless, Maggie…_

Captain Smith confidently strode in, the eager masses parting for him like the Red Sea for Moses, and tacked a notice to a bulletin board at the fore of the room:

_12:00 noon Friday, 12 April-12:00 noon Saturday, 13 April: 519 miles_

Nearly a hundred first-class passengers clamored either to read the notice, or to hear the number being spread through the crowds by those who did get a peek. The white-haired Captain pulled down the notice announcing the previous day's run of 386 miles. "We've certainly sped up, sir," I remarked.

He gave me a small, paternal smile. "We certainly have, Mrs. Brown. And she's not even at full speed yet; just wait until tomorrow's run!"

At that very moment, the environment around us hissed with whispers of _Titanic _attempting to break a speed record, (against her older sister the _Olympic, _if not against the fastest ships of the day,) and arrive in New York on Tuesday night instead of Wednesday morning. It was foolish thinking, since we would still have to wait until daybreak Wednesday to dock properly. The only benefit of an early arrival would be the press frenzy. In April, there was still a risk of a little run-in with ice, particularly as we sailed south of Greenland. Going full speed ahead in these circumstances didn't seem worth it to me.

I had sailed with Captain Smith before; I liked and trusted him. I wanted to ask him to personally put my mind at ease over these rumors, but for just one moment I was uncharacteristically timid. That's all it took for him to turn and head back to the bridge with a crisp click of his heels.

As the crowds dispersed, _Titanic _was naturally a popular topic of conversation. I took the opportunity to tell the Thayers, Madame Aubart, the Countess of Rothes, and anyone else who would listen, that _Titanic_'s chief designer would be offering a complimentary tour of the ship tomorrow afternoon. "It should be very interesting. Mr. Ismay says that Mr. Andrews knows and loves this ship better than anyone."

I followed the crowds down to the reception room to wait for luncheon. The room was furnished with potted ferns, and white wicker furniture with plush green seat cushions. I took a chair in the corner by the bright, round-topped windows, and discreetly checked on my ankle. I had wrapped my foot again this morning, and traded my daily walk for some extra time standing in front of the punching bag in the gymnasium. Thankfully, my injury seemed to be healing fast.

"Afternoon, Molly."

"Afternoon, Tom," I replied as the shipbuilder took a seat beside me. We were still "Molly" and "Tom" in public of course. He opened his notebook, pretending to be only half-interested in our conversation. No one would have guessed I had been in his stateroom late the night before.

Let me be clear, Josephine: That encounter had ended innocently. Shortly after Tommie's speech about timeless beauty, I had thanked him for his thoughtfulness and limped back to my cabin alone. Still, news of my mere _presence _in his private quarters would have been tremendously scandalous in Edwardian society, as we were both well aware!

"How's your ankle?" he asked.

"Almost good as new." Quietly, I inquired, "How's the coal fire?" He had mentioned it on the boat deck the day before; I'd imagine it's what had him preoccupied at Thursday dinner, too. The fire was near one of the bulkheads that separated the lower decks into watertight compartments. There was nothing the crew could do about it, except keep it contained and let it burn itself out.

He smiled down at his notebook. "Went out around five this morning; the damage is very minimal, best we could've hoped for."

"Good! I'm glad. Now ya won't be distracted during the tour tomorrow."

"Ye haven't been goadin people into that, have ye?" he muttered good-naturedly.

"Of course I have," I grinned. "You deserve it."

I meant it as a compliment; he playfully spun it around. "Why, Molly? What've I ever done to ye to deserve such punishment?" I worked to rein in my laughter to polite-society levels. Then, he was suddenly solemn: "How's young Rose?"

"I can't say." I realized then that I hadn't seen her yet that day. _I'd imagine she slept through breakfast, after whatever she and Jack did last night… Does Tommie know about that? …No, he couldn't possibly…_

"I worked in steerage this mornin, and I spoke with Jack a bit," Tommie confessed, half-whispering. He'd dropped the pretense of working in his notebook while we spoke. "Ye know what he told me, Maggie? That he wants to help Rose fall in love with life itself again."

I snorted with laughter. "Now _that's _a load of bull. Where'd he get that line? A nickelodeon?"

"That's what I thought, at first," Tommie said. "But concerning Rose, it makes a fair bit of sense, now doesn't it?"

I scarcely had a chance to ponder his words before the Astors invited us to take luncheon with them, along with Benjamin Guggenheim, Madame Aubart, and the Strauses. Tommie and I sat together, with Maddie Astor on his other side and Ida Straus on mine. All four men at the table were businessmen, and Tommie the only Brit among the four. They immediately asked his opinion of Great Britain's recent coal miners' strike.

"I'm just glad they've reached an outcome agreeable to both the good workers and the businesses," he said tactfully.

"I daresay it cost you a pretty penny, though, what with the coal shortage putting people off sea travel…"

He shrugged. It occurred to me that if anyone would be hurting from the underbooking of _Titanic_'s maiden voyage, it was J. Bruce Ismay, not Tommie. "Well, there'll be other voyages to make up for it. Besides," he grinned, "the ship looks even bigger with fewer people aboard."

The others chortled heartily, and moved on to discussing a recent strike in California that had turned violent. Each of them was, in his own mind, a deputy, a diplomat, or perhaps both. The way they talked, you'd think the whole crisis could have been averted if only _they_ had been there!

Tommie jotted something in his notebook, then passed me the dinner rolls as they came around the table. I declined. "Aren't you hungry, Molly?" he asked.

I had worked up quite an appetite at the gymnasium, but I figured it was best to eat lean if there was even the slightest chance that I was contending with a serious foot injury. Maddie Astor groaned. "Molly, please don't tell me you're giving up _bread _now, too!" She explained to Tommie, "She's already given up sugar, salt and butter. I always feel a bit guilty, eating with her."

"Well, don't," I commanded as I passed the bread basket on to Ida Straus. "No reason for any of ya to suffer on behalf of _my _figure."

"Very magnanimous of you, Mag- I mean, Molly," Tommie said, buttering his dinner roll. "You know," he mused, "I suppose I'm lucky. I've one of those constitutions where I can eat just about anything and not put on weight."

I cast a dubious side-glance at Tommie's waistline. As you would expect of a shipbuilder, he was quite fit and muscular- but he did have just a little extra 'round the middle. Without a change in his mealtime philosophy, he was headed the right way for a midlife paunch in a few years. I let slip a small smirk, then felt my face go hot. _I hope he didn't notice that._

He noticed. Rather than be offended, he gave me a sly half-smile. "Though I suppose my luck _might _run out someday…"

Ida Straus piped up, with blunt German humor. "It will. Just wait until you turn forty, Mr. Andrews."

"Hm. Forty," I remarked, nudging his foot beneath the table. _How old are ya again, Tommie? Thirty-nine?_

"Hm," he repeated, with a small, amused shake of his head towards me. _Touche, Maggie._

"At least, that's when Isidor's luck ran out," Ida smiled.

"My luck with what, dear?" Isidor asked mildly. Ida whispered in her husband's ear; he chuckled and returned to the business talk, unperturbed. The Strauses had been married over forty years. They were usually quite reserved with other people. Between the two of them, however, there was an abundance of natural affection that even honeymooners would envy.

I spent the rest of the meal trying not to slip up and say "Tommie" instead of "Tom," and wondering if the small gestures and remarks between Tommie and me, the implied understandings and unspoken jokes, constituted a kind of flirting. _It's disruption of the social code that we're flirting with, not one another, _I decided. _Society wouldn't expect us to become good friends, and yet we have. It's all in good fun._

However, I hadn't forgotten our unfinished conversation from before luncheon. Over dessert, I commented with feigned nonchalance, "You know, I haven't seen the DeWitt Bukaters yet today."

Tommie nodded in understanding. "Neither have I. But I think I see my work for the afternoon: Checking in on the dinnerware cabinets." He cocked his head towards a nearby table, where Colonel Gracie had just accidentally shattered a drinking glass.

"Must've gotten carried away with an old war story," I quipped. We shared a quiet laugh.

Just then, J. Bruce Ismay appeared. He exchanged polite pleasantries with us all, then put his hand on Tommie's shoulder. "May I have a word, Thomas?"

Tommie's face darkened, and I knew without a word that I shouldn't wait around to speak with him after luncheon.

I went back to my stateroom to take the wrap off my fast-mending ankle, and then head out in search of Rose. My plans would prove redundant, however. I unlocked my stateroom and found Rose standing there, her eyes red and her face tearstained, staring blankly at the Abbéma. She turned slowly, as if in a daze. Her voice was quiet and broken. "Oh. Molly."


	12. No Evidence

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information. This chapter has a brief overlap with "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 7: An Irish Party with Tommie and Maggie.)

**XII. No Evidence**

"Rose?" I closed the door behind me and stared.

She pulled herself out of the trance. "Please don't be angry, Molly," she begged. Her eyes grew wide as saucers. She clasped her hands before her chest, a childlike gesture- or one of personal defense. Her voice trembled wildly: "I bribed a steward to let me in. I needed… a place to hide…"

"Sweetheart, I'm not angry." I cautiously approached her. She crumpled into my arms. "It's alright, Rose." I sat her down on the edge of my bed. She drew her knees up. She looked so small, so helpless. For a few moments, I just stroked her hair. She cried in tortured little sobs, like the noise a wounded dove might make. One look at her eyes and I knew why she was like this; all the louder tears had already been shed.

"Jack and I danced last night. That was _all _we did." She stared down at my bedcovers, gulping furiously. "But Cal- he wouldn't- believe me…"

"Rose." I reached out and cupped her cheek. Right now she needed to feel a genuinely caring, gentle touch. To give her strength. "Darlin, look at me. Did he hurt you?"

She met my gaze and shook her head. "He would have. Trudy wouldn't leave me alone with him, after he… we've never seen him so angry before… But then Mother sent Trudy away, and…" I understood. That was when Rose had fled. But to my stateroom? _This _was her place of refuge on the ship? I was at once incredibly flattered and hopelessly confused.

There was a knock on the door. A male voice, English accent: "Mrs. Brown? It's Mr. Bailey, the Master-at-Arms. May I come in, madam?"

Rose let out a small cry and fell against me. To mild protests from Mr. Bailey, Hockley's valet swung the door open unbidden. He found us sitting on the bed together, with Rose clinging to me, her face buried in my chest.

(line)

Mr. Lovejoy, (this, I learned, was the valet's horribly ironic name,) escorted Rose back to the suite, while Mr. Bailey took me to his office. "Just a bit of paperwork, madam; no need to worry!" he announced loudly. He did this as much for my benefit, as to inform the passersby who stopped and stared, their eyes glittering hungrily at the possibility of fresh gossip-prey.

Our exit from first-class was mercifully quick, as we took the elevator down to E deck. Mr. Bailey led me through a maze of narrow hallways with exposed piping, dull linoleum floors, and sterile white walls. Cal Hockley was waiting for us in the office, leaning against the key cabinet and calmly smoking a cigarette. "You scum," I blurted.

His mouth fell open and his eyes grew wide; he held his cigarette still, aloft. The entire pose seemed contrived. "_Excuse_ me?"

"She is so much more than her beauty. She's got the mind of a scholar, the soul of an artist, a heart of gold. And all you do is fence her in like a pet! Don't you see how much that _hurts _her?" My blood boiled. I couldn't keep from yelling. Cal ducked his chin and glowered at me out of the tops of his eyes. "You're _hurting her!_" I cried.

Mr. Bailey's thick hands settled on my upper arms. "Just calm down, Mrs. Brown, come on…" I let him seat me at a rough-hewn little table. Cal sat opposite me, and we waited for Mr. Bailey to retrieve some papers from the adjacent room.

"A bit of an Irish temper, Mrs. Brown?" Cal teased cruelly.

I knew exactly what he was referring to. Several years prior, my son was expelled from college, and when he broke the news to his father, they came to blows. J.J. ended up with a concussion and Lawrence spent a night in jail. I was the one who had to assure the press that we were a happy, loving family, (although by that point, we were not.) I had joked that the whole scuffle was nothing more than 'a bit of Irish temper.'

Mr. Bailey came in and sat beside me. "Right. Mrs. Brown." He flipped through a clipboard, his expression carefully blank. "Do you wish to press charges against Miss DeWitt Bukater for breaking and entering?"

My response was instantaneous. "No."

He handed me some papers to sign to that effect. I could feel Cal's eyes on me the whole time. "And Mr. Hockley," Mr. Bailey continued. "Do you wish to press charges against Miss DeWitt Bukater for theft?"

"For _theft_?" I was astounded. Then I realized Rose's bribe to the steward had to come from somewhere. I sighed. "For pity's sake. How much was it?"

"Twenty," Cal replied evenly.

"Oh come on, Cal! That's practically nothin!" I pulled out my pocketbook.

He leaned back in his wheeled desk chair and chuckled. "Are you going to _bribe _me, Mrs. Brown?"

"Nope. Just payin ya back on Rose's behalf." I dropped two $10 bills on the table. "Besides, why would I bribe you? Seems to me _you're_ the one who's got more to lose here."

Mr. Bailey was nonplussed. For the briefest moment, Cal dropped all theatrics and shot me a look of cold, solid hatred. Then he snarled, standing so abruptly that his chair flew into the wall behind him. "I won't press charges. I want nothing on record about this incident!" He gave a dismissive wave towards me: "Destroy her report as well." He took my bills and placed them on Mr. Bailey's clipboard, topping it off with a handful of Ben Franklins from his vest pocket. "Is that understood, Mr. Bailey?"

The Master at Arms frowned and pushed the money back at Cal. "Aye. You're free to go, Mr. Hockley." Cal nodded curtly and glanced at me, as if to say, _And her?_ Mr. Bailey was calm. "I need to speak with Mrs. Brown for a moment."

Cal gritted his teeth. "About _what_, exactly?"

"It doesn't concern you, Mr. Hockley." Mr. Bailey gave me a sympathetic look. Apparently, he took my ranting about Cal hurting Rose to be more than mere trifling hysteria.

"Fine," Cal huffed. I did my best not to flinch as he stomped past me. He turned back in the doorway. With a bit of dark laughter, he mused, "It's funny- I still don't know how my fiancée ended up in _your _cabin in particular, Mrs. Brown. Could it be your mutual admiration of Sarah Bernhardt… and Louise Abbéma?"

My stomach twisted unpleasantly. Cal was downright artful at veiling his meaning from Mr. Bailey, while being crystal clear to me.

He lowered his voice so only I heard: "It seems it's in everyone's best interest if we handle this incident with _discretion,_ Mrs. Brown."

On that threatening note, he glided out. I felt myself sweating, though it suddenly felt cold down here. Until Cal was safely out of earshot, Mr. Bailey and I sat in silence.

"Mrs. Brown." The law officer's voice had turned quiet and gravelly. "Do you have any evidence of wrongdoing by Mr. Hockley against his fiancée?"

I could hear the steady, mechanical rhythm of the ship's engines, not so far below us. The heartbeat of Tommie's beautiful ship- dependable, stolid and unfeeling. And here I was, heart racing, my feelings a mess.

"No sir." I swallowed hard. "No evidence."

(line)

I had scarcely returned to my cabin and begun to collect myself, when Ruth DeWitt Bukater was at my door. It was beyond my strength in that moment to offer her a cheerful greeting, but I stood aside and let her in. Ever the optimist, I must admit that I was waiting for her to apologize, or to tell me that the engagement was broken off.

Instead, she blinked up at the Abbéma. So softly that it could almost be mistaken for the rustling of her lacy dress, she breathed, "It's true!"

"Ruth…"

She turned to face me, cold and blank, except for her livid eyes. "You're not to see my daughter again, Molly," she said softly. "I forbid it." Then she left as abruptly as she came.

Painful questions crept into my mind: _Is there nothing that I can do?_ _Will Rose be alright in the end? Was I a fool to care in the first place? How will I be able to stand back and watch the way they treat her for the rest of the voyage?_

I needed to take my mind off things. I went to the lounge, and joined the Astors and the Thayers in a game of cards. Then it was time for yet another hobnobbing, ten-course dinner. I didn't know which would choke me first- too much food or too much hypocrisy.

As we lazily circled down the Grand Staircase, I kept my ears open for vicious gossip. None so far. Would Ruth and Cal be true to their unspoken agreement to keep quiet and leave me alone, as long as I did the same for them? I couldn't be sure…

I sat next to Tommie again at dinner. Unlike at luncheon, my heart wasn't in the mealtime banter. Perhaps he noticed? At any rate, he slipped me a note just before retiring to the smoking room.

_We need to talk. Meet me at the clock at 11._

He was a fool to ask me to meet him at such a late hour, and I a bigger fool for coming! What's more, I went back to my stateroom after dinner, put on flat shoes, and re-wrapped my ankle, just in case I needed the strength. I wouldn't have admitted it then, but I was ready to follow him _anywhere _on that ship.

I found him standing on the bottom step of the staircase just beneath Honor and Glory Crowning Time, still in his dinner tuxedo. He was staring thoughtfully up at his dome, until the noise of my approach made him turn, smile and nod. I told him that I was still worried about Rose.

"I know. I've been worried about her as well, Maggie, but I'd like to show you something to ease yer worry." He whispered, "How would ye like to go to a _real _party?"

I pulled him outside, away from any passersby, and gave him an earful about how ridiculous he was being! Yet I think I knew from the beginning that I would go along with his plan. Certainly I knew when he told me that he'd seen Rose dancing with Jack the night before in steerage:

"She was so _happy, _Maggie!" He paused and quietly confessed, "I just wanted to see that again."

I seriously doubted Rose would appear… But here was Tommie Andrews, as noble and innocent as ever. He stared down at the deck like a scolded schoolboy, apologized for rashly inviting me to come along, and began to head back inside…

Josephine, how could I ever say no to the man?

"Tommie, wait."

(line)

**A/N: **The incident between J.J. and Lawrence Brown really did occur. Fun, huh? :-/ Another note: I'm not sure whether non-US readers will be familiar with the faces on our currency, (maybe so, thanks to the movies…) but I figure it's rude to assume. In case clarification is needed, each "Ben Franklin" is a $100 bill. To convert the value of _each one_ of those bills into various currencies today, see values mentioned in the A/N on Chapter 10 and multiply by ten. And Cal dropped three or four of those puppies on Bailey's clipboard, so… pretty desperate, eh?

In addition: I knew from the start that I'd want to keep Margaret somehow involved in the "Rose drama" during the day on Saturday, but the idea to have her confront Cal struck me very suddenly while listening to Bette Midler's song "The Girl is on to You." Beautiful song, (and it is on youtube,) check it out sometime. :-)


	13. Che Bella Coppia!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information. This chapter has considerable overlap with "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 7: An Irish Party with Tommie and Maggie.)

**XIII. Che Bella Coppia!**

Life very occasionally offers us problems to which heavy drinking is a proper solution. Preparing to undergo emergency surgery without modern anesthesia, for instance. Or surviving four hours in subzero temperatures by using alcohol to insulate one's blood. Or, in my case, when a married man entices you to attend a party with him and to break class distinctions, in the service of encouraging two young folks' forbidden and potentially dangerous romance…

And you go along willingly.

The first clue that we might not get away with this came within our first five minutes in the steerage commons. Over the noise of a lively fiddle band in the corner, one of Jack's poker buddies picked up on Tommie's Belfast brogue. Sounding rather County Cork himself, he noted, "_This ship _comes from Belfast," and went on to reference Harland & Wolff by name. So Tommie, not wanting to become a celebrity that evening, went incognito with the surname "Lenaghan." He shot a quick glance at Jack, and then at me, warning, _Ye best be rememberin that. _Oh, I seriously doubted I would!

I downed some Guinness from one of Jack's pals. They were an amicable, international bunch, all young men under thirty or so. The Harland & Wolff aficionado, (incidentally, also named Tommy,) and one or two others were Irish; Jack's best friend Fabrizio was Italian; their card game was rounded out by a Russian fellow.

A curly-haired little girl of about six approached our table, keen on dancing with Jack. With Tommie honorably insisting that he would keep an eye out for Rose, Jack gently led his young friend in do-si-do's and playful spins. I watched, thinking to myself, _He's a real good kid, Jack… It's a shame Hockley'd hunt him down and skin him alive if he ever lay eyes on Rose again. _"Hey, uh, where do I get a refill on this?" I asked, holding up the nearest empty pint glass.

Fabrizio wordlessly fetched me more beer. Tommy Ryan noted my accent: "So yer American, Mrs. Brown?"

"Yup. Just like Jack."

"No, _not _just like Jack," he laughed, with a pointed look at my fine attire. Tommie was lucky; shed his suit coat, vest, tie and collar, (which he did quickly in that warm room,) and he could pass for a working class man who happened to be a little well-dressed. But I was stuck in my ruffles and pearls for the night. "Do ye play cards, Mrs. Brown?"

I looked at the table. They'd just started a game of seven-card stud. "I know my way around a poker table," I admitted.

"So, are ye in?" The boys eagerly nodded towards Jack's abandoned hand, and then the pot in the middle of the table. Small bills from various countries, a pocket watch with unmoving hands, a pack of cigarettes. I couldn't have matched their bets for meagerness even if I tried.

_They think I'm easy pickins, _I thought. _And maybe I am. What does it matter? _"I'm in." I dropped one of my pearl necklaces into the pot. The boys laughed and whooped. Tommie's eyes grew wide at my bet. He shook his head and went back to watching the entrance for Rose.

Our game was interrupted several times by children laughing and running under our table, or by the players stopping to heckle and cheer at a nearby arm-wrestling match. At one point, Fabrizio simply walked off with a Scandinavian girl with whom he had no shared vocabulary, but _a lot _of understanding.

Tommy Ryan grinned after them. "Ye know, it's funny," he confided to me. "For the first half a day aboard, the different nationalities were just starin each other down, all suspicious-like. And now, well, it's the American meltin pot already. Isn't that right, Alexei?" He clapped the Russian boy at our table on the shoulder. Alexei laughed and nodded. God bless their optimism!

Nearly an hour disappeared, as did a pint and a half of Guinness at my elbow. By some incredible streak of luck, (it certainly wasn't skill,) I ended up taking all. And they were fixing to give me the pot, too! Such honest boys! I pushed it back towards them. "You'll need it in America- at least to start with," I reminded them. They could be turned away at Ellis Island if they were wanting for funds; I wouldn't be responsible for that. Instead, with the alcohol helping some, I waxed poetic about the land of opportunity. Tommy Ryan proposed a toast.

"To America!"

"To America!" Even Tommie raised a glass, (the first I'd seen him drink all night,) although he looked rather glum about it. Since arriving, he'd taken occasional notes in his ever-present black book, kept an eye on poor old me, and watched out for Rose. Perhaps I should have broken the sad truth about Rose to him then, but I wasn't thinking clearly- for several reasons…

"Mr. Lenaghan, you seen Rose?" Jack had appeared out of nowhere (or so it seemed to me.) As the two men compared notes, I doubled over in my chair, snickering to myself. _"Mr. Lenaghan." I forgot about that! Dear Lord, where'd Tommie come up with that one?_

As Jack sulked off, I turned and noticed the raised dancing platforms dotting the room's smoky landscape. Men, women and children mingled together in line dances and do-si-do's, simple but lively steps that easily crossed the divides between languages. Josephine, you know that I am quite a dancer, myself- although even when sober as a judge, I excel in enthusiasm over skill. "I feel like _dancin,_" I cooed playfully to Tommie sitting beside me. "Whaddaya say?"

The Irishman gave me a look of such horror and confusion that you would've thought I'd just bet him a hundred dollars to go kiss J. Bruce Ismay on the lips. He muttered something about going to check on Jack. Well, a man's disapproval never stopped me from doing anything before… I ponderously climbed the stairs to the nearest platform. Spectators began to clap in rhythm as I managed something like a cross between a jig and the can-can.

John Ryan's Polka came to a close, for the third time in an hour. (What this band lacked in repertoire, they made up for in spirit.) Feeling flushed, I stopped and leaned against one of the bare white poles along the platform's edge. I scanned the crowds for Tommie; his height helped me to spot him in the sea of plain dress shirts and suspenders. He was pulling Jack back towards the poker table, his hand placed paternally on the boy's shoulder.

"Mrs. Brown!" Fabrizio tapped me on the shoulder. When I spun to face him, I almost slipped off the edge of the platform. His blonde girlfriend shrieked and reached out to steady me; she was surprisingly strong. "You, a little _brilla, _eh?" he said, nodding kindly.

They helped me down the steps to the main floor. Even as Tommie gave Jack a pep talk about "not giving up" on Rose, I continued to try and coax him into dancing. I don't recall the details of that interaction, nor do I care to. I know Tommie's patience with me wore thin. At least once, he snapped, "Not _now_, Maggie!"

But the Irishman's tune changed dramatically when Jack accidentally dropped his real last name. He yanked me into a passing line dance so we could both escape Tommy Ryan. Several people behind us, we heard him railing: "I _KNEW _it, I bloody knew it! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Thomas Andrews! THE Thomas Andrews! Jack, you BASTARD!" Tommie and I laughed like a pair of schoolchildren narrowly escaping the truant officer!

Once we all weaved our way back to Jack's friends' table, there were no hard feelings. At least as far as I could tell. Then again, by this point I could be brought to tears by a child passing by with a winsome smile, or to uncontrollable laughter by Fabrizio taking my newly-refilled Guinness away from me. Fabrizio's big brown eyes even looked quite endearing, as did Tommy Ryan's blonde curls peeking out from under his bowler hat, or Fabrizio's girlfriend's pretty smile… "Good heavens," as Tommie would say: I was more than just a little _brilla._

While Fabrizio loudly announced in Italian that the ship's architect was among us, Tommy asked Tommie, "Is it true it took _fifteen thousand _men to build her?"

"Thereabouts." Tommie watched as I held back a crowd of curious, adoring passengers by slurring in Italian, 'Fabrizio was mistaken, he's just a carpenter.' The shipbuilder took a sip of liquid courage as he prepared to face down the Irish Inquisition. The poker gang and I watched, grinning.

"Is it true ye had to convert yer three dry docks into two cos the new ships are too bloody big?"

"Aye," Tommie grinned. I thought of J. Bruce Ismay then, and could scarcely breathe for thirty seconds.

"Is it true there's dead men inside the hull?"

"_What? _No! Though a few good men died buildin her, God rest their souls." Another long sip from the pint.

"Is it true ye don't allow smokin at the docks?"

"Ah, that's true, yes."

"Or Catholics?"

"Now that's just an ugly rumor, it is _not_ true…" Tommie lowered his voice, "and are ye tryin to get me killed?" The Protestant glanced around nervously. Even in such a frivolous atmosphere, there were more than a few crucifixes and prayer beads in plain sight.

Tommy shrugged. "Right. Sorry. It's an honor, sir." He shook Tommie's hand. "Though I must say, ye don't look anythin like Jack's sketch o ye." Before we could ask, he got Jack to hand him the book, and flipped towards the back. A page labeled 'first-class dinner' contained several small sketches, drawn from memory, each one with the name of the subject scrawled beside it.

I laughed at Ismay in the top left corner, nose high in the air, with a comically oversized mustache. "Will ya look at that! Jack did everything but draw the stick up his arse!"

Tommie stared at me. "Did ye just say…? Och, never mind," he sighed. I smacked the table repeatedly, seized with laughter. Tommie looked back at the page. "Oy, Jack!"

Jack sat on the other side of the table, glumly playing with a pencil. Tommie got up and went over to him. As I recovered my wits, I noticed that Tommie's pint was nearly empty. The day before, he'd mentioned to me that he very seldom drank more than a glass of wine a night. _Hm, __this__ could get interesting…_

"Do I really look so _old?"_ he demanded loudly.

I looked at the page. Jack's sketch of Tommie was quick and rough. Only his trademark notebook set him apart from any other gentleman. Jack depicted him from a side angle, his brow furrowed, a line running down the side of his nose to the corner of his mouth as he frowned down at his notes. The gray at his temples was prominent; the hand around his pen was tight-fisted.

Jack was tactful: "Only when you're dealing with Mr. Ismay, sir." Tommie laughed heartily, and would have let the issue drop there. But Tommy Ryan had grabbed the page and was playing 'compare and contrast' for all his pals. One of them chuckled something about 'an old Industrialist,' and… well…

"So," Tommie sighed. He slowly marched around the table, glowering at the handful of younger, southern Irishmen before him. "My own countrymen think I'm a wee bit too posh, too Ulster, too _old,_ to know how to have fun, is that it?"

I was struck with the mental image of Tommie spending quiet evenings with his ship plans and his Faure records, while these working class boys gambled and danced the night away. I snorted with laughter. Tommie snuck me a quick wink before pretending to scowl at me. The others turned white, not realizing he was toying with them.

"Well," he downed the rest of his pint. "Watch this!"

He darted up to the dance floor. As the space around him cleared, he launched into a jig, lively and yet perfectly executed. Oh, the sight of him! In black trousers, his long legs agile; and a white linen dress shirt, broad shoulders still and firm, hands on his hips. He stared down, concentrating on the steps. Sweat glistened and dropped from his wavy, grayish-brown locks. The crowds clapped in rhythm and cheered. I saw more than a few girls smile and blush. My own face felt fit to burst into flames.

"Maggie! Come on up!" He stopped and extended a hand towards me, grinning broadly, his face flushed. I hesitated. "I know ye've been wantin to!" he teased.

I stumbled upward. "I didn't know ya could _do _that!" I gaped.

"I didn't either; it's been years…" he admitted, his eyes sparkling. A couples' dance was starting. He drew me close; each of us grew a bit more flushed from the other's warmth. His rather woodsy cologne mingled with the scents of sweat and fine cigars. With one hand, he twined his long, calloused fingers between my soft, short ones. The other hand he placed at my waist.

I have danced with many men, usually just one clumsy, polite little number as a courtesy at some gala. I have so much energy that it takes a particularly strong and confident man to really lead me properly in a dance. My J.J. had always been up to the task. And so was Thomas Andrews. I remember our dance as effortless, with never a false step.

Some time later, (perhaps five minutes, perhaps an hour,) I confessed that I was a little dizzy, and he led me off the floor. "We ought to be headin back," he remarked.

At the foot of the dance floor stairs, I slipped and crashed into a young, dark-haired couple. I recognized them from the crowd that had gathered when Fabrizio announced Tommie's presence in Italian. The woman shrieked as her husband's beer spilled on her plain wool dress. "Mi dispiace!" I gasped.

"Non ti preoccupare," she assured me with a shy smile. Her eyes shone with joy; her voice was high and musical. She pointed at herself. "Giovanna." And her man: "Salvatore."

Tommie pointed to himself, then me. "Thomas. Margaret." There were handshakes all around, as we smiled and repeated each other's names like happy simpletons.

Tommie guided me through the crowds, which at this late hour had thinned just enough not to break the fire code. Behind us, we clearly heard Giovanna comment to her man, "Che bella coppia!"

"What?" Tommie looked to me for translation. Luckily, the stairs up to the steerage promenade provided a momentary distraction for us both. I gathered my muddled thoughts. I couldn't tell him what the young woman had _really_ said.

"She said don't worry about her dress, and… that I'm a horrible dancer," I giggled. We pushed through double doors into the bracing night air. There was an obligatory moment of gasping and arching our backs at the cold; the sweat seemed to freeze to our bodies. The deck was deserted, except for dormant cranes glistening in the sterile exterior lights.

"Oh, surely she didn't say _that_…"

I changed the subject, sighing happily: "So many bright futures in that room," I looked up at the multitude of stars gleaming steadily in the clear sky. "Just imagine what their lives'll be like in ten, twenty, thirty years! Everyone in there, besides you, headed for the New World!"

"Everyone besides me?" Tommie repeated. "Well, Maggie, I'm flattered." We laughed uproariously at my gaffe. "I've got quite a future as well!" He walked over and took a haughty stance by the railing, resting one hand on the uppermost rung and clutching his pocket watch with the other. "I'll have ye know," he announced into the crisp night air, his voice carrying regally, "I plan to turn into my uncle Will."

"Ya mean take over for him?"

"No, _turn into _him. I've a very busy thirty years ahead of me, Maggie," he deadpanned.

I almost fell to my knees on the deck from laughter as Tommie began pacing, running a hand over his stubble, feigning preoccupation with this 'future' of his:

"It's not enough to become chairman of Harland & Wolff, no. I'll have to serve as mayor of Belfast for a wee bit, God help me; grow a white beard and a potbelly; find some potential successor to harangue…" He threw his voice gruff and paternal: "Now don't startle Mr. Ismay with this talk of more lifeboats, young… erm…" He resumed his normal voice, pensive. "Well, I suppose it might be a Harland lad. Or Thomas Andrews III…"

"Or Elba," I blurted. Now it was his turn to laugh uncontrollably. I persisted, "Come on, Tommie! In thirty years, in, um…"

"1942?"

"Yeah, then. Don'tcha think she can if she wants to? Just think: Elizabeth Andrews, designer of the _grandest_ ships in the world-"

"No!" he intervened. But before I could give him a drunken lecture on the virtues of having women in the workplace, he said: "Not ships. _Aeroplanes._ Zeppelins! _That's _the way of the future, Maggie!" He gestured up towards the celestial black. "Flying machines!"

This somehow turned into us laughing and singing "Come Josephine" all the way across the empty promenade. We slurred and exaggerated every _uuuup, she goes, _forgot half the words, and botched the song's back-and-forth dialogues. As we approached the stairs back up to first class. Tommie held the gate open for me.

"Come, Josephine, in my flying machine…" His voice was a pleasant, rich tenor- and remarkably on-key, all things considering.

"Going up," I sighed, walking up ahead of him.

"Going up!"

"Goodbye…" we sang together at the top of the stairs. We shared one last muffled laugh. We were the only two souls on the promenade, and still we were careful when within earshot of first class. Tommie took out his trusty pocket watch.

"Heavens! It's nearly 1:30," he shook his head. "Maggie, when yer in Ireland next, ye _must _come up to Belfast for a visit." I blushed deeply. "So ye can amuse my family as much as you've amused me!" He clapped me on the shoulder. "G'night, Maggie." And with that, he headed for the aft Grand Staircase entrance.

I took another route inside, fighting back sudden tears. _So I "amuse" him? Just like I amuse the Denver press? Or the snakepit? Or everyone else who finds me an "unnatural" woman?_

Back in my stateroom, I collapsed into bed, whimpering pitifully as my tears stained the silk pillowcases. I was exhausted. I was drunk. I was overwhelmed by the reality of Rose's situation, which I'd have to face again tomorrow. But why was I so stricken over Tommie's benign parting words?

The answer lies in Giovanna's comment of us both: _Che bella coppia._ "What a lovely couple." The fact that we were perceived as such would mortify a man who so loved his wife and daughter back in Belfast- and rightly so. Yet on my own behalf, I was surprisingly unperturbed.

I had seen him in gentle dignity among the first-classers; in patient chivalry with me on boat deck, and in his stateroom; and enraptured in idealism over his ship's beauty. Just this evening, I also saw him as a concerned surrogate guardian for Jack and Rose, and as a vibrant and fun-loving man. So unassuming at first glance, yet there was such goodness and depth to the humble shipbuilder…

Oh, Josephine! That's when I knew: I had fallen for him.

(line)

**A/N:** In case there's any question as to their level of intoxication… Tommie's had a pint of Guinness, and Maggie's had about two and a half pints over the course of the evening. I've been assured by people who actually drink that this would be enough to get them fairly tipsy, (especially Maggie,) but not enough for problematic stuff like puking, blacking out, passing out, etc.

Also, I should take this opportunity to say the same thing I said for "An Irish Party with Tommie and Maggie." That is: This is pure, fictional fun! _There is __**no way**__ the real Thomas Andrews and Margaret Brown would have acted like this, together or separately! _Though wouldn't it have been fun if they did? ;-)


	14. Sanctuary

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Scene from Cameron's film: **The Divine Service; note that I stick to historical accuracy rather than Cameron's film, by _not _closing with "Eternal Father, Strong to Save" (the Naval Hymn.) In addition, this chapter shares a scene with "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 8: Business and Politics.)

**XIV. Sanctuary**

My 6:00 wakeup call came far too soon. My head pounded; my stomach turned; my limbs were like lead. Apollo was being rather unkind to me; all I wanted was the cool and dark, but as the sun rose on yet another cloudless day at sea, my entire stateroom glowed warm and orange.

I pulled a pillow over my head and fell back into sleep's welcome embrace. In my dreams, I saw a young woman with curly red hair burying her tearstained face against me… but her voice was lower than my Helen's. I felt the long, strong arms of a tall and sturdy man, guiding me across a dance floor… but his eyes, instead of my J.J.'s merry blue, were a warm brown…

My muddled mind began to put together pieces of the day before. My stomach tightened further; I tossed and turned. _Dear God, what have we done?_

Regarding Rose, my conscience was clear, but my heart was broken. It's not that I was afraid of provoking her captors. Rumors of sapphism tend to raise eyebrows, but cause little permanent damage, especially when they prove unfounded. Instead, I despaired because there was no way that I could help the poor girl. It wouldn't have mattered if Cal and I descended into a rumor war, or even if I had some proof of his abuse. Ruth was enamored of her future son-in-law, and thoroughly disgusted with me. She would remain allied to Cal no matter what. Therefore, nothing short of a calamity could free Rose from the engagement.

Regarding Tommie, the situation was simpler, but my emotions more complex. There was no question that, given just the true events of the past few days, the rumor mills would reinvent our friendship as a romance. After all, this was only eleven years after my J.J. was nearly sued by another businessman for "withdrawal of spousal affections," because the man's wife once had luncheon with J.J. at a restaurant alone. Josephine, can you imagine how such a paranoid society would react to my presence in Tommie's stateroom one night, and in his arms on the dance floor the next?

Remembering both the public hassle and the private pain that I endured from J.J.'s legal troubles in 1901, I felt ashamed before Helen Reilly Barbour Andrews. I had never met her, but in my mind's eye, there she was: loyal and kind, intelligent yet guileless, just like her husband. And married less than four years! I don't know how I would have coped if I had to face rumors of marital infidelity when my marriage was so young, when giving J.J. a happy home was still my highest calling, and discovering traces of him in our little children was one of my greatest joys…

Try as I might, I could not get back to sleep. So I rose and prepared for the Lord's day, praying for His strength every step of the way. A seltzer water for my stomach, a little extra makeup for my brave face, and then I was off to breakfast alone at the café…

I emerged onto the same promenade where Tommie and I parted ways mere hours ago. It was pleasantly cool, the air a bit moist, the northern sky a deep and sleepy blue. I was surprised to see quite a few first-classers strolling about. Many were walking fore from the a la carte restaurant.

"Everyone's taking breakfast up here today. They're setting up the saloon for a little church service. Very thoughtful of the White Star, but where was this kind of consideration yesterday for temple, I ask you?" Isidor Straus chuckled as he and Ida approached me.

"Molly, would you walk with us for a moment?" Ida's request was polite, but with an undercurrent of urgency. I fell in step with the older couple as they slowly strolled fore. We chatted about Isidor's business and about what a lovely voyage it had been thus far. Ida waited until we were out of others' earshot, then whispered, "A word to the wise, Molly: For now, you'll want to keep company with good friends, _loyal_ friends. And don't listen to the talk going around."

She reached out and lightly squeezed my hands. They smiled gently at me, then walked off, arm in arm, sharing sweet whispers. I sighed as I turned back. _God, give me strength._

When I first entered the restaurant, I pretended to admire the ivy-adorned trellises for a moment. Instead, I half-hid behind them so I could assess the damage unnoticed. Over the clinking of fine china and the light whir of ceiling fans, I heard my name repeatedly, in conjunction with words and phrases like "quite the scandal," "gutter rats," "wild drinking and dancing," and even "offensively irresponsible."

Well! Shame on me for forgetting the vested interest that others had in _my_ standards of behavior! How dare I _offend _them with a lapse of judgment that had no personal effect on them! Still I was relieved over the words that I did not hear: "Hockley," "DeWitt Bukater," "Master-at-Arms," or, perhaps most importantly, "Andrews."

The cashier's eyes shone with mirth as she took my ticket. I entered the restaurant, and it was like walking through tall, snake-infested grass. Silence rippled before me, preceded by serpentine hisses. _Psst! Behind you! _With the restaurant crowded as it was, I inevitably brushed up against some wicker chairs. Their occupants recoiled. I muttered "'scuse me," and cast furtive glances up into the crowds. I caught Hockley's valet smirking at me over heavy, folded hands. Cal and Ruth shared a whisper and a giggle beneath a sunny window. Rose avoided all eye contact and blushed furiously into her teacup.

I found J.J. and Maddie Astor taking breakfast with the Duff-Gordons. "Mornin, folks. Mind if I join ya'll for breakfast?" They nodded; their quiet smiles were filled with pity. They pretended not to notice the Thayers staring curiously from a nearby table, or Madame Aubart rolling her eyes dramatically, or a dozen other tactless spectacles of first-class behavior.

"Well, Molly." Lucy, Lady Duff Gordon timidly broke the ice. "Cosmo and I are looking forward to the ship's tour this afternoon. I wanted to thank you again for telling us about it."

"Of course."

"Though I must say, that Mr. Andrews seems a bit shy to play tour guide…"

"He's not shy at all once he gets talking about one of two things: his ship, or his family," Maddie smiled.

On the one hand, I was relieved to hear them speak so lightly of Tommie; it meant his name wasn't being dragged through the mud. On the other hand, I had forgotten about the tour until now, and was a bit grieved at the reminder. Considering my current feelings, I doubted I should go.

(line)

The dining saloon tables had been removed, and the chairs arranged in pews facing aft. The crowds filed in reverently. They even stopped talking about me, instead falling into soft footsteps and fabric rustles. Captain Smith stood at a podium before the congregation, dressed in his finest suit and with all his naval decorations. The ship's orchestra was ready and waiting. I sat in the front pew, with the Duff Gordons and J. Bruce Ismay.

The captain gave a brief speech about God's blessings and our gratitude, then offered a moment of silence for personal prayer and confession. I found it vaguely disorienting, having church in English and with no Eucharist. I also had the eerie sense that someone was staring at me from behind, but I was afraid to turn and look. I knew the DeWitt Bukaters and Hockley were somewhere in the room.

I have no idea whether Tommie was actually present, but he certainly occupied my mind. As dust particles floated in the sunlight streaming through the portside windows, I recalled our talk on the boat deck on Friday. He had explained how he originally wanted the Olympic-class liners' first-class saloon on A deck, beneath a glass ceiling dome, but White Star executives pointed out that the same feature on Cunard's _Mauretania _and _Lusitania _made the saloons too warm on sunny days. I'd playfully asked if they put the saloon all the way down on D deck just to spite him:

_Not exactly. The saloon ended up where it is because the smoothest ride on the whole ship is amidships on the middle decks. So the precious first-classers will never spill their fine wine. These are the sorts of considerations that make White Star the best in the world, I'll have ye know. Though I'm sure you've noticed I stuffed the walls full o windows anyways. Before ye ask, Molly, it wasn't to spite anyone. It's just that so much of architecture is about playing with light…_

The captain led us in a few hymns from the White Star prayer book, as carefully nondenominational as the rest of the "service" had been. _Titanic_ passed through the shade of one small cloud, and a momentary shadow danced through the angling light. The white enamel walls and pillars gleamed; the band played sweet and gentle; the patterned linoleum floor beneath us was ever firm and unmoving.

What a sanctuary Tommie had built for us all! I put my heart into singing the unfamiliar hymns, thanking God for so gifting my friend. I silently asked forgiveness for claiming his friendship too much for myself. For a moment I was at peace again.

At the end of the service, I turned and saw the source of my unease. Ruth DeWitt Bukater occupied the chair directly behind me. Rose stood beside her mother, staring at the floor. She was corseted extra-tight today, wearing virginal white lace and blue velvet. I nodded politely at them and then headed out, preparing to spend a quiet day alone.

I spotted Tommie in the crowds in the Staircase. Rose approached him and practically begged to start the ship's tour right away. At least when I told him Rose was interested in _Titanic,_ I'd told him the truth after all!

When I saw the way he smiled at her, it was as if my recent confession flew out the window. Right or wrong, all I wanted was to be near him, to bask in his warm and quiet joy. But I could hear the snakes warming up their rattles again…

I kept my eyes forward and my ears shut, and almost made it up to B deck without incident. Then suddenly he was at my side. "Maggie, are ye still up for the tour later?"

"I'm afraid not, I'm a bit under the weather," I muttered. He looked concerned enough to ask me about the night before, then and there. But what would that accomplish? It would only drag his reputation down with mine! His happy home life was at stake, whether he realized it or not. So I warned him to keep his distance in the best way I could: "Good day, Mr. Andrews."

He stopped still as I walked on. "_Mr. Andrews?_" I heard him whisper in bemusement. Then he began to follow me, the fool. I fled to the reading and writing room. Of the two places on the ship where I could claim sanctuary from men, (the other being my stateroom,) it would be less of a scandal if he did have the gall to follow me in. Which, as I'm sure you've guessed, he did.

The room was completely vacant; it seems even the attendant had stepped out for a moment. Tommie stared at the empty upholstered chairs and the untouched bookshelves. "Doesn't anyone use this room?" he asked conversationally. "If not, perhaps I ought to convert it into-"

"Tom," I snapped. "We can't do this."

"I just want to make sure yer alright-"

"No, Tom!" I pulled away from him, towards the wide, sunny fore window. He was forced to almost squint down at me. "No. We can't be seen to be…" I shook my head, "…_together._ A man and a woman about the same age, both travelin without their spouses, befriendin each other, dancin together-"

"For heaven's sake, Maggie!"

He reached out and touched my elbows. Dear Lord, he touched _anyone _he had rapport with; I had seen him reach out like this to Jack, to Rose, to both the Astors at meals, even to stewards! Didn't he understand he couldn't treat the whole world like his shipyard pals? If only he wasn't so kindly, we could have avoided this entire bittersweet misunderstanding… Then again, could I really wish for him to be anything other than kindhearted?

"The dancing- we'd both had a bit too much of the old Irish ale, eh?" He gave me that sly half-smile of his. "As for the rest… aren't ye the feminist here? 'Gender doesn't matter that much' and 'we're all just people' and all that? You and I, we're just two people that hit it off and became pals, is all."

I squirmed. "That may be so, but people talk, and-"

"And I thought you didn't _care_ about all that," he said pointedly. "I thought you were liberated, outspoken…"

"I'm outspoken for my _causes, _Tom!" I burst out. "Not for some silly friendship that's lasted four days and could mark us both for the rest of our lives!"

I paused, chest heaving. Tommie was as dumbstruck as if I'd hit him upside the head with a frying pan. I don't blame him; I couldn't believe what I had just said, either.

I tried to explain. "Look, ya can't understand what it's like for me-"

He scoffed. "Oh, and why not?"

"Because you're… you're _perfect!_" There. I'd said it. "You're brilliant and accomplished, but more than that, you're old money, you're Protestant,your marriage is new and happy, you're _male_. They don't scrutinize your every move, cause you're everything they want…"

I stopped to fight a wave of self-pity, something I never let myself feel. I thought of my J.J. turning his back on me because he was jealous of how often I was simply _mentioned _in the newspapers, whether good or bad. I thought of traveling nonstop from Rhode Island to Colorado, after receiving word of Lawrence and J.J.'s fistfight. My first priority was to make sure they were both alright, and instead I had to run damage control. I arrived at the Denver train depot in the middle of the night and was greeted by _the press._

"I can't understand?" Tommie's voice was quiet and low. He set his mouth in a thin line; his eyes burned into me. "Well, I don't know how anyone can understand _you_,Margaret Brown. If ye suspected last night that this'd happen- and I know ye did- then why in God's name did ye come with me?" He leaned over me, bracing himself with a hand against the window frame. In quiet fury, he demanded, "_Why?_"

Oh, God. The truth tangled itself around my heart, my lungs, my windpipe. I just stood there, arms crossed, head down, fighting hot, shameful tears like a scolded child.

"I'm going back," I said brusquely, pushing past him. "Wait here a few minutes. _Don't _follow me."

(line)

**A/N:** The reading room scene is in "Yours, Tommie," but was not included when I first put up the story in May and June. For original "Yours, Tommie" readers, I recommend a reread of Chapter 8 to see this confrontation from Thomas's viewpoint; there are some different insights in there.


	15. What's The Plan?

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Scene from Cameron's film: **Jack and Rose flying at the bow; Jack and Rose overhearing Thomas and the officers on deck; Jack's arrest; and the A-deck staircase scene, starting from Margaret's interrogation of a steward. In addition, the description of Thomas Andrews and of J. Bruce Ismay at Sunday dinner is based on "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 10: Day of Rest) rather than historical accounts.

**XV. What's the Plan?**

After the reading and writing room confrontation, I fled to my stateroom for a long, heavy-headed nap, then spent the rest of the afternoon reading in my cabin. At half past five, I checked in on the Astors. They offered to have a private dinner for the three of us brought to their suite: "It's no trouble, Molly. We'll tell the stewards that Maddie's unwell again." But I insisted we go to the saloon instead. I needed to make sure the rumors about me had not grown to include other innocents.

Turns out I needn't have worried. The snakepit had already tired of me; the topic of the hour was _Titanic_'s arrival time. Over bright flower centerpieces, at tables big and small, bets were being placed. Some were in jest, but others had real funds attached:

_Tuesday between noon and one? You're mad, man; this isn't the Lusitania!... I say Wednesday between nine and ten in the morning. After all, we'll have to slow down a bit, going beneath the Grand Banks… In the "unsinkable ship?" I wouldn't count on it!…_

"I have it on good authority from Captain Smith. Today he lit the last boilers, and we plan to run full speed ahead until we reach New York harbor." Ismay's voice boomed out above the rest. I turned and saw him holding the attention of a large dinner party, nose high in the air, wearing a smug smile beneath that comically oversized mustache. _Jack sure has a gift for seeing people, _I observed.

Tommie arrived in the saloon several minutes late, and passed by our little table with a polite smile and nod. He sat alone near the pantry entrance; to say he "dined" would have been an overstatement. As his steward brought out each dish, the last one was whisked away barely touched. He worked intently in his notebook, frowning, his fist clenched. Like Ismay, he bore a surprising resemblance to Jack's quick sketch of him from the night before. Halfway through his main course, he got up and left through the pantry.

In addition to wondering what was bothering Tommie, I was restless from having slept the afternoon away. If I didn't burn off some energy, I would be up all night! So I excused myself from dessert and went to take an exercise walk on the promenade.

The weather had turned colder that day, and the few passengers and crew who were out and about walked with purpose. A figure standing still at the ship's bow caught my eye. I stopped to look, pulling my coat tight around me. A man in a black overcoat stared pensively at the gray-blue stratus clouds encroaching on the western horizon. Illogical hope whispered, _Is that Tommie? _But no- he was too short and slight.

He slouched against the rail. Another figure timidly approached him; I caught my breath when I recognized the fiery hair and blue velvet dress. _Rose? But does that mean he's…? _She stopped short and must have called out to him. He turned towards her, and I saw that yes indeed, it _was _Jack.

He beckoned her closer, and helped her step onto the lowest rung of the railing, his hand protectively at her waist. Then he climbed up right behind her, braced himself with a wide stance, and gently removed her hands from the rail.Slowly, in starts and stops, he moved their arms out straight.

The evening twilight began to glow a vivid pink as the young couple stood still, arms extended. His overcoat billowed and her shawl flapped in the chilled breeze. _They're flying! _I realized. I recalled Tommie's remark about Jack the day before: _He wants to help Rose fall in love with life itself again. _Suddenly, it seemed to all make sense.

Rose craned her graceful white neck, Jack leaned in close, and after a moment's hesitation they shared a passionate kiss. I wasn't surprised- but I was still cautious, and glanced around the promenade on their behalf. No witnesses, or at least none who took an interest.

The sky turned deep purple. Little did we know, that would be the last time _Titanic _eversaw daylight. The youngsters shivered and rubbed their hands as they finally clambered off the bow. I watched them weave aft past the windlasses and cranes, arm in arm. Rose entered the first-class accommodations at B deck while Jack waited nervously outside.

I hurried down to him. No time for formalities: "Okay, Jack, what's the plan?"

He got a pained look on his face like he didn't know whether to laugh, cry or run. "I don't have one, Molly. I swear."

"Well, you'd better _get_ one, and it better not involve any funny business where the snakes might getcha, if ya catch my drift." I pulled my coat tight around me; darkness was descending fast, and we were whipped by the bitter wind of an arctic front.

Jack shoved his hands in his pockets for warmth. "Rose told me she wants to show me the paintings in her suite. She's making sure the coast is clear. After that, we'll make ourselves scarce in first class. I promise."

I stared him down a moment. He squirmed and ground his teeth. _Yes, son, you __should__ be intimidated._ "Ya promise?"

"Yes ma'am." He answered me with the dutiful respect of a nervous schoolboy.

"And ya promise me that yer pursuits in that suite will be purely artistic in nature?"

Jack nodded and met my gaze. "I promise," he repeated.

I sighed. "Alright. I'll see what I can do to keep her relations at bay." I patted him on the shoulder. "Good luck."

(line)

This was the first that I spent enough time in the first-class lounge to really take it in, and I was quite moved. Josephine, as young as you are, still I'm sure that you are acquainted with the dull, nagging heartache of having more feelings for someone than you can admit. How everythingin your environment begins to remind you of the object of your affections, and how painful it is to keep those sweet, trivial observations to yourself. Now, try to imagine how intense this phenomenon would be, if you were literally _surrounded _by that person's handiwork at all times!

Tommie's love of "playing with light" was on proud display here. A large, fluted chandelier took the lead role in illuminating the room. Little extra lights graced the chandelier's tips, encased in inverted bells of frosted glass. There were gilded wall sconces in abundance. Two-story windows would flood the room with sunlight by day. At night, they provided a jet-black backdrop in stunning contrast to the warmth and comfort within.

"Molly, won't you come sit with us?" The Duff-Gordons beckoned me over to a sofa before a long, oval coffee table. All the furniture was dark-polished oak, with Louis XV style curves and embellishments to match the room's elegant molding. The carpet and upholstery were medium green with floral swirls of gold; one had the sense of being in an enchanted garden.

I had scarcely taken a seat before Lucy bragged, "We saw the ship's tour this afternoon to the very end."

"We started out in a group of twenty, and by the end we were down to only five, including Mr. Andrews himself," Cosmo explained. He teased, "Honestly, Molly, you could have _warned _us. We must have walked all 882 feet of her, ten times over!"

"How long did it take?" I asked. I looked around, smiling and waving at passengers coming up from dinner, searching for Ruth or Cal.

"Nearly three hours! Though I don't think it was all Mr. Andrews' fault. Miss DeWitt Bukater slowed us down some; she was chock full of questions," Cosmo remarked. Just then, I spotted Ruth entering the room with John and Marian Thayer. Lucy saw them too and waved them over.

The pleasantries began, but the newly-arrived threesome did not sit down at first. Ruth caught sight of me and began twitching like a rabbit staring down the barrel of a gun. I thought fast. _It's safe to assume Cal's in the smoking room if he's not with Ruth, but I'd best keep an eye on her. The closer I can keep her to me, the better…_

Marian had a flat, square box tucked beneath her arm. Its cover featured a picture of a six-pointed star, populated with marbles engaged in some sort of strategy game. "What've ya got there, Marian?" I asked.

"Oh, we bought this in Berlin." We all nodded and "oohed" appreciatively about the Thayers' recent travels. "It's a delightful little strategy game they call Stern Halma. We'd hoped to play a few rounds tonight."

"Well, how about you teach us?" I offered. The Duff-Gordons nodded eagerly. The Thayers moved to take a pair of armchairs flanking our sofa, and Marian set the game on the coffee table. "So, how many people can play?"

"Two, three, four or six," John replied in his clean, 'standard American' accent. As Ruth began to back away, he added, "But not five."

"Not five?"

"Not five. Ruth, won't you be our sixth?"

She fidgeted with her pocketbook. "I'm not sure I plan on staying long…"

"Oh but Ruth, it's more exciting with six players!" Marian insisted. Ruth gave in, the Thayers explained the rules, and we set up the board. As we played, the Duff-Gordons boasted of their plans to open a new salon in Paris, and the Thayers briefed us on their children's schooling and social lives. (Only Jack, their oldest, was traveling with them, but they had three other children as well.) I expected Ruth to pipe up then about her own daughter's impending wedding. She did not.

I didn't have much of a plan when I roped Ruth into our six-person game. I only knew that the longer I kept her there, the longer before she might discover Jack and Rose. I made sure to express plenty of enthusiasm for the game, to keep everyone in high spirits and ensure they agreed to another round. It was lucky for me that the Thayers were our leaders and the two most eager players. As socially and politically conservative Philadelphians, they were among Ruth's inner circle, and she wouldn't dare disappoint them.

We were on our third or fourth round, and the lounge was just past its mid-evening peak of activity, when Mr. Lovejoy came by and quietly asked Ruth about her daughter's whereabouts. "She's resting in the suite," she replied evenly, and the valet left looking grim. (Then again, he _always_ looked grim.) I waited with baited breath for one of the other ladies to inquire further, since I couldn't risk doing so.

Marian stepped up to the task. "Is Rose not feeling well?"

"Just a little tired from the ship's tour this afternoon," Ruth assured her. Her smile was no more terse than usual; it appeared she was still unsuspecting. Good.

"I hear Mr. Andrews ran you all ragged," John quipped.

"He did, but I'm afraid that's not what has Rose out of sorts. We overheard an ice warning while Mr. Andrews was showing us the bridge," Ruth said. Her expression in that moment was new to me. She had softened in genuine compassion. "After that, she asked him if there were enough lifeboats for everyone on board."

"Well of course there aren't," Cosmo remarked, not maliciously. "In this day and age, a ship like _Titanic _would never sink before help could arrive."

"I've heard _Titanic _would never sink at all," Marian piped up. That earned her a few odd looks. "Well, it's what the papers say, isn't it?"

"Marian, surely we can't believe _everything_ we read in the papers," Ruth teased. I caught her eye just then; she looked almost mischievous_. _The woman continued to surprise me tonight.

"But I spoke with Mr. Ismay today," Marian pressed on. "He showed me an ice warning from a nearby ship, and he wasn't the least bit worried."

John scowled. "When did we speak with Mr. Ismay, dear?"

"I spoke with him on the promenade this afternoon." She added pointedly: "I was _with _Mrs. Ryerson."

"Well, the ship's not 'unsinkable' in theory, though she is in practicality. Mr. Andrews explained this today, after you and Rose left," Cosmo told Ruth. "Perhaps you should let her know this, to put her mind at ease." Turning his attention directly on Marian, he patiently explained, "See, the lower decks are divided into watertight compartments, so if the hull is broken open, only a little part of the ship gets flooded."

"I know all of that," Marian sighed.

"Why did Mr. Ismay stop to talk to two women?" John puzzled to himself.

As Marian's cheeks turned pink, Cosmo continued, "_Titanic _can stay afloat indefinitely with several compartments flooded, so it would take unforeseeable circumstances to sink her. But Mr. Andrews did say he wished to have more lifeboats aboard, just in case."

"I think he only said that to reassure Rose," Ruth opined.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Cosmo smiled. "He does seem a rather meticulous chap…"

"Well, if Mr. Ismay's not worried, then none of us should be," Marian snapped. Clearly she wanted this conversation to end. The game had stalled on John's turn as he stared at his wife.

I thought of something Tommie had said on boat deck on Friday, when I skeptically asked if the ship was truly "unsinkable." _Put enough holes in a vessel made of iron, and she __will__ sink._ "I'd have to agree with Cosmo," I piped up. "Mr. Andrews has got a good head on his shoulders, and he's very cautious. More cautious than Mr. Ismay, I think."

"Apparently," John muttered. Marian huffed indignantly, then shot me a biting retort:

"You seem to know Mr. Andrews rather _well_, Molly. I see the two of you conversing quite often."

The sting of Marian's words momentarily loosened my vigilance on Ruth. I barely noticed as Mr. Lovejoy reappeared and ushered Ruth out, whispering to her urgently. In retrospect, he must have begun debriefing her straightaway, because soon a shriek rang out from the other end of the room.

I turned and saw that Ruth had collapsed. She was conscious, but wan. The strapping manservant carefully lifted her from the plush carpet into an armchair. Her hand trembled as she tried to fan herself. Other ladies swarmed in to take over the task- and to get front seats to the unfolding drama.

_Ruth, are you alright?... What is it, dear?... _I craned my neck to glimpse her through the sea of silk and satin. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving slightly. _Ruth, what ever do you mean, "Where did I go wrong?" _This inquiry caused several of her predators to turn away from her and towards one another. They clucked in feigned concern, but their eyes began to glimmer with speculation. That's when I sprang into action:

"Alright, gals, give the lady some air!" I pushed into the crowd, and affected a silly, society laugh: "Ruth, poor darlin, I _told _ya to go easy on those oysters at dinner! Mr. Lovejoy, please, help her up. Should we call Dr. O'Loughlin for ya, Ruth?" She wordlessly shook her head. "Think ya can make it to yer suite?" A nod, still silent. She wouldn't look at me.

The lounge quickly began to empty. It was nearly 10:00, and now there was a spreading rumor of spoiled oysters… I sighed and cast my gaze heavenward. I was surprised to see gilded outlines of musical notes and instruments glimmering in the creamy ceiling. The bridge of "Pavane Op. 50" erupted into my mind, taking me aback. I retired to my stateroom.

Ruth was about my age, but as Mr. Lovejoy led her out, she had looked a hundred years old. _Where did I go wrong? _she had muttered in her half-conscious distress. The lament of the mother of a rebellious grown child- I knew _that_ from experience. She and I did have that one common ground.

Poor Ruth! I was quite certain Jack had broken his word to me, and so Rose had broken her mother's heart. How could I have aided and abetted in causing a fellow mother so much pain? I berated myself: _For God's sake, Maggie, will you ever learn to stop meddling?_

(line)

Two hours later I was reading in my stateroom, and sipping a brandy in hopes that it would help wear me down towards sleep at a reasonable hour. A sudden jolt nearly knocked me out of bed. I stared at the brandy on my end table; the liquid continued to dance in the glass for thirty, perhaps sixty seconds after the initial shock.

I earmarked the book and got up. _The air doesn't feel right, _I thought. My foreboding eased when I realized its source; the omnipresent hum of the engines was simply gone. Surely they would restart momentarily. But given my inquisitive nature, and my high energy at the moment, I figured it couldn't hurt to go out and investigate.

I grabbed my warmest fur coat and set off, running into J.J. Astor in the Grand Staircase. "I decided I ought to take a look, just to put Maddie's mind at ease," he told me, gaily. Then, quieter, "The stewards certainly don't seem to know what's what."

"Well it's only just happened, J.J.," I reminded him. Strange, "it" had become a recognized event before we even knew what "it" was. As we pushed through the French doors on A deck, I gasped. The air temperature made our previous nights at sea feel like a Fourth of July evening picnic by comparison. Every breath created a hearty puff of fog; even warmly dressed, I shivered slightly.

There was an odd, damp smell in the air. Some young passengers were playfully kicking large chunks of ice around the decks. We watched from above, both lost in thought.

Finally, I mused, "Must've been pretty tall, if some of it ended up on deck. Think it was a growler, or a bona fide berg?"

J.J. shrugged. "I couldn't say, Molly. I'm more curious to know where we hit."

"Well it's too dark to tell…"

"It is, yes. Head-on would be ideal, as we could probably keep moving, like the _Olympic _after she hit the _Hawke _last year." J.J. began shivering violently; he was a lean man, cold-sensitive. "Well, we're not getting any answers out here," he muttered through chattering teeth.

"See ya later, J.J. Tell Maddie not to worry," I smiled as he went back inside.

That was the last time I ever saw him alive.

"Have you seen the damage to the mail hold?" Tommie's voice carried far in the crystalline air, though his tone was unusually tight and gravelly. I spotted him on the other side of the promenade's fore, carrying rolled-up blueprints, descending a staircase towards the bow with Captain Smith and several high-ranking officers.

"She's already underwater," an officer reported. Well, that certainly didn't sound good. I spotted Jack and Rose eavesdropping near the men. Rose was in a translucent, empire-waisted white dress that was little more than a nightie by Edwardian standards. The youngsters headed inside, arm in arm. I overheard Rose say something about going to find her mother.

Tommie and the officers approached some crewmen staring over the starboard railing. They gave their report. There were crisp nods all around. None of the men's faces were readable. I watched for several minutes. As they turned and headed back the way they came, I went back inside.

My return to B deck was met with a dramatic scene: "I didn't do it, Rose! Don't you believe it!" Jack was literally kicking and screaming as Mr. Bailey, his assistant, and Mr. Lovejoy dragged him towards the lifts. Cal must have accused him of stealing something. I felt bad for Jack, but what he said next made me grimace and curse his naivete: "Rose! You _know _me!"

Oh for God's sake; did the boy realize what "to know" someone can mean in a literary sense?

A few people stopped and stared, but since Jack was clearly not one "of our station," their interest was short-lived. Instead, speculations ran high about the incident. Those who had already seen the ice reported glibly to their friends, who were invariably skeptical and went out to see for themselves. They returned shivering but grinning, a few carrying little frozen "souvenirs" in with them.

Then stewards appeared, asking us to return to our cabins, put on our lifebelts and report to boat deck "for a drill." The lifebelts, which were stored in our wardrobes, were made of bulky cork encased in coarse fabric. Certainly not a high-fashion garment, but I fastened mine dutifully.

By the time I returned to the Grand Staircase, people milled about by the dozens. Some were warmly-dressed and wearing lifebelts; others were still in their nighties and slippers, with their lifebelts folded and tucked beneath their arms. The mood was a curious mix: some were giddy about all the eventfulness at this late hour; others were annoyed and wanted to go back to sleep; still others were already concerned. The stewards placated the first two camps with complimentary drinks, while the third were left to sift through their fellow passengers for answers.

John and Jack Thayer approached me on A deck, and we swapped stories. They had been part of the short-lived "drill" out on boat deck, ostensibly while I was fetching my lifebelt. "The funnels are letting off a lot of steam, so it was awfully noisy, and of course freezing cold. We all went back in right away. The crew was so busy with the boats that they didn't seem to care," Jack commented.

"Where's Marian?" I asked.

"She and the maid are keeping an eye on things by the boat deck entrance," John explained. "They sent us down to get a few more valuables from our cabins, in the meantime. Do you think we should, Molly?"

John's idea did have some appeal- as long as he meant necessities for coping in the cold, rather than mere vanities. I could think of a few useful items back in my own stateroom. But I'll never know why he seemed to think that I was a woman with a plan! I shrugged, then pulled aside a young steward. The gangly Thayer men eavesdropped as I demanded, "Hey sonny, what's doin? You've got us all trussed up here and now we're coolin our heels!"

"Sorry, ma'am… I'll go and find out…" I watched him stumble off, and caught sight of the Staircase's famous clock over his shoulder. Almost 12:15. The steward was just some young kid with a pudding-thick accent; it wasn't his fault that White Star didn't bother to fully debrief their crew, even a half hour after a collision.

I sighed, irritated. "I don't think anyone knows what the hell's goin on here." The three of us set off for our cabins. We passed Hockley and the DeWitt Bukaters coming up from B deck. _I'll have to keep an eye on them as soon as I get back, _I noted.

As we rounded the corner, I caught sight of Tommie entering the A-deck landing from the lounge. He was in a big black overcoat, open and loose, hanging on him like a funeral shroud. He seemed to float in, slowly, head and shoulders above the crowd, staring up at his beautiful glass dome in numb despair.

I knew then that something was very wrong.

(line)

**A/N: **In case anyone's wondering what the heck they were playing in the lounge, Stern Halma is better known today by the name that American toy marketers slapped on it in the late 1920's: Chinese checkers. Of course, by this point we all have more serious things on our mind than the game… *sob!*


	16. Get into the Boat

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Sources: **Molly and Ruth's entrance into Lifeboat 6, between "Come on, sister, you heard the man" and Ruth beginning to cling to the side of the ship, is included in the film, although I've added additional dialogue from Margaret's POV. The stateroom scene of this chapter is included in "Yours, Tommie." (Chapter 11: A Mathematical Certainty.) Some details of Margaret's actions during the sinking are from chapter 1 of _Molly Brown: Unraveling the Myth._

**XVI. Get into the Boat**

I hurried back to my stateroom, wrapped my ankle, slipped a good-luck talisman from Egypt into my pocket, stashed $500 in a place where a woman learns to keep valuables during difficult travel, donned seven pairs of wool stockings, and lay out two of my warmest coats. Something held me back from putting my lifebelt back on, grabbing the coats and leaving. _He's coming for you. Just wait. _The thought didn't make any sense, and yet I trusted it. I tried to return to my reading, and ended up pacing instead.

_Why on earth would he come to my stateroom now? As if I mean that much to him! I should go find Rose and her relations. I should go above decks… But once I'm out there, that's it. I'm out there, in the North Atlantic, with whoever is in my same boat, until whenever help may come…_

_And what if help tarries? Won't it take two trips to get everyone off in the lifeboats? He'll be one of the last ones to leave, along with Smith and Ismay… What if they can't get off until too late?… Damn men and their foolish "honor!"_

_Alright, alright, just a couple more minutes down here, just in case he comes… Maggie, old girl, you've completely lost your marbles…_

I put "Come, Josephine" on my phonograph. _Just one listen through and then I'm outta here, _I bargained with myself. Blanche Ring cheerfully trilled away, as I sat on my bed and closed my eyes, trying to channel thoughts of the night before. Was it really just the night before that we tipsily waltzed across that promenade? I remembered his singing, punctuated by quiet laughter that reverberated through his large, sturdy ribcage. I remembered the twinkle in his eye as we playfully pitched our voices upward: _Uuuuup, she goes!_

I was startled by a sharp knock on the door. I answered, and there he was! Brusque and businesslike, he ordered, "Mag- I mean, Mrs. Brown. Please, put on a lifebelt and report to boat deck immediately."

I fought back my shock and pulled him into the room. "You got it, Tommie, but we gotta talk first." I walked over to my sitting area, where my lifebelt rested on the table. It gave me a moment to collect myself without him seeing my face.

"I thought I just saw ye in the Staircase…" He was half perplexed, half accusing.

"Ya probably did," I admitted. I looked down, embarrassed. "I was there a coupla minutes ago."

I knew without looking that he was shaking his head, his brow furrowed. "Then why're ye here now?" he asked.

_No use lying now, I suppose… _"Cause… I figured ya might come lookin for me."

"Don't ye think I have better things to do?" he demanded. His voice was raw, exasperated. All I wanted to do was throw my arms around him, and here he was angry with me- and rightfully so!

_Better things to do? _I thought to myself._ If there were any chance of saving the ship, I know they'd put her lead architect on the job. Instead yer goin from cabin to cabin, tellin people to get above decks! _That was when I knew for certain: _Titanic _was sinking. I gathered my courage and looked him in the eye: "Not if it's as bad as I think it is, ya don't."

All color drained from his ruddy face. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

I knew what he was apologizing for. But damn it, _it wasn't his fault. _So, as always, I was diplomatic. I pretended he was sorry for something else. I rambled about brushing him off earlier that day, explaining how I didn't want the gossipers hurting him like they hurt me. I made sure to sneak in there that he was a good man, a _very _good man, and that's when he spoke up:

"No, Maggie, I'm not. _Titanic, _she's…" His eyes glistened. He stared down at the floor and began to turn away from me.

Rushing forward, I reached out to him- like I had seen him do for so many others. The bitter sting of guilt comes from the sense of alienation that it brings. I needed to remind him that he was not alone. "Tommie, how can I help? _Tommie_," I insisted, shaking him. He pulled himself together with a deep, gasping breath.

"The lifeboats. Yer fellow socialites don't want to get in, and not all the crew's well-trained…" he said, gently gesturing as always.

Of course. "So I gotta coax em in- cheerfully."

"Precisely." He was still a bit breathless, but his gaze was steady, focused on me. "There mustn't be a panic, Maggie."

"What about once we get out there? If the boats aren't full…"

"Obey the officers, keep calm, but see if ye can't get em to come back for more." He was gulping back his fear. As I slid my hands up to his shoulders in comfort, he reached for my elbows. "The important thing," he said, his voice low and urgent, "is to convince as many people as ye can to _get into the boats._"

Oh, God. Did his insistence on filling the boats mean that my worst fears were true… that help would not come in time? If so, what did that mean for him? And for his wife and baby daughter in Belfast?

"Any chance… I can convince _you_?" I whispered.

"No." He shook his head, first slowly and then faster, frantic. His voice pitched upward: "No, Maggie, I…"

There is a dreadful trend in society today for men to be branded cowards if they cry. But in classical theater, when the unthinkable happens, the tragic hero is _supposed_ to shed tears. It shows that he's man enough to care. Thomas Andrews would soon prove to be one of the bravest men I ever knew. I am honored that I was there to hold him as he wept.

The moment passed. He pulled himself together. I stood on tiptoe to place a gentle kiss on his tearstained cheek. "You're a good man, Tommie Andrews. Don't you forget it." Our eyes met, and I could see he was grasping at my affirmation like a drowning man clambering for a buoy. Blinking back tears of my own, I turned to put on my lifebelt and pick up my coats. "Ya seen Rose?"

"I have. And she knows." He took out his pocket watch and flipped it open. "You'll… take care of her?"

"Of course."

I still hoped that, come tomorrow, we would walk in comforting friendship on another ship's promenade. But the hope was faint. I fled before I could give in to despair.

That was the last time I saw Thomas Andrews. He stood tall in the middle of my stateroom, his overcoat hanging lopsided as gravity tilted on us all. In the warm light of the Tiffany table lamp and the brass sconces, he looked worried, almost ill. Yet he was resolute as he placed his pocket watch back in his vest.

(line)

I stood with Rose and her relations in the entryway between the lounge and the Grand Staircase. (Ruth and Cal were in no mood to protest my presence.) This was the place where, scarcely more than two days prior, Tommie and I had played the peanut gallery to Jack's first-class dinner entrance. We all had taken the solidness of the marble floor for granted then; now there was a slight but noticeable forward tilt. It was unnerving.

Cal and Rose were grave. I wasn't sure how much Rose "knew," but it seemed to be enough. Ruth, meanwhile, seemed hazy and nervous. She kept forcing light, irreverent comments and laughter. Her efforts were met with blank stares.

"Are you sure you're warm enough?" Cal asked Rose. She had an elegant, women's overcoat on atop her flimsy dress. Yet she was underdressed compared to her mother and me, in our fur coats, hats and mufflers. When her fiance reached towards her, Rose gave an instinctive, violent flinch back. It made my stomach turn.

The ship's orchestra had played in the lounge since midnight. Now, they stopped and walked past us, each man with his instrument in one hand and a chair in the other. "Oh, look, they've dismissed the orchestra. So they ought to dismiss us!" Ruth grinned.

"I don't think they're dismissed," I remarked. I watched the musicians join the crowds walking up the Staircase to boat deck.

Cal nodded curtly. "They're going up to the boats. And so should we."

"Oh, _must_ we?" Ruth chuckled. None of us answered her. The DeWitt Bukater women- each for different reasons- had to be guided with a hand on their arm. I took Rose and Cal took Ruth.

We pushed through dense crowds. Once we emerged into the chilled night, Cal was aggressive about getting us to the front of a newly-formed queue. When her fiance and mother were momentarily out of earshot, Rose whispered, "I can't do this, Molly."

"It'll be alright, Rose," I said. "Just stick with your mother and me and obey the officers." There were so many more things I wanted to tell her, and ask her. But now was not the time.

"But Jack-"

Rose stopped short as the horrendous noise of the funnels ceased. I pressed on to keep up with Cal and Ruth. Just up ahead, the crowds attentively circled a lanky, high-ranking officer. I would later recognize him in the newspapers; he was Second Officer Charles Lightoller. As his crew readied the first lifeboat, and the band began to play, he stiffly announced, "For the time being I shall require only women and children."

Instead of stepping forward, the women all shrank back. The majority were traveling with their husbands, who gently tried to coax them forward. _But it's so cold, dear… Are you certain it's safe?... Why can't you come with me?..._

I sighed. Both then and now, "women and children first" seemed to me an archaic, foolish way to determine rescue priority. Nevertheless, the faster we complied, the sooner they'd fill the boats and cast us off. Then, the sooner we would (hopefully) reach the rescue ship, and they would send the boats back for the men.

I stepped forward. "Alright, ladies, you heard the man!" A pragmatic-looking woman, sixtyish and warmly dressed, was the first to follow me towards the boat. I stood by as the crewmen helped her in. One by one, others nodded nervously to their husbands, gave them their final embraces, then let the officers escort them into the boat. Crewmen on the bridge launched the first distress flare, which motivated some women and caused others to stall even more. As the crewmen continued to bark at the women to step forward, I encouraged them one by one, with a hand on the shoulder and some jaunty words:

"That's it, dear, just step right up… Come on, sister, you heard the man, get into the boat…"

"That's enough of that, madam, we have it under control." A wild-eyed young crewman reached out and helped me in. Indignant at his sexism, I complied nonetheless.

Over the years, some of my worst critics have questioned my altruism during _Titanic_'s sinking by pointing out that I left in one of the earliest boats. I had my reasons, though. I had to set a good example for the more skittish ladies, and keep an eye on the DeWitt Bukaters, who were poised to enter this boat. In addition, every moment I stayed on the ship was a moment that I fought the urge to run back into the Grand Staircase, screaming his name…

I would have done it, if for a second I thought I could convince him to save himself. But I knew it was a reckless, stupid idea. It only would have caused him more heartache.

The boat was large and sturdy, but it creaked and swayed none too reassuringly as it hung from the davits. Ruth was poised to enter next. "Will the lifeboats be seated according to class?" she trilled.

"_She's _a pleasant one," remarked a young girl standing beside me. She was English, fair-haired, and wearing a maid's uniform.

I muttered by way of explanation, "She's had a rough night."

I watched as Rose grabbed her mother by the elbows. I didn't need to catch the words to know that Rose was telling her the awful truth. Ruth went still in shock. Cal stood by the women; he said something that seemed to further horrify them both. Ruth would dissolve into panic if I didn't act fast, and then the panic would spread…

"Come on, Ruth! Get in the boat. First-class seats are right up here."

Ruth cried out as I helped her in. When I took her by the elbow, I felt her trembling. I turned back towards the deck just as the second distress flare was launched, illuminating Rose's face as she stared at Cal in cold disgust.

"Come on, Rose, darlin, there's plenty of room for you!" She didn't move. "Come on, Rose!" I smiled and extended my hand. She turned towards me in a daze.

"Come into the boat, Rose." Ruth was suddenly the most lucid I had seen her since the lounge. As Cal tried to urge his fiancée in, and Rose refused, Ruth insisted: "Rose! _Get into the boat, _Rose."

Rose didn't move. Her eyes darted between Cal and Ruth. "Goodbye, Mother," she said softly, and then stormed off.

"Rose, come back here!" Ruth commanded. "Right now!" She and I stood and watched together as Cal chased after Rose and tried to overpower her. Of all things, she managed to escape by _spitting_ on him. The crewmen began preparing to lower our boat. Ruth shrieked, "No, wait!"

I turned to the young man who had helped me in, as he seemed to be in charge of our boat. "Hold on a minute, sonny."

"Madam, we have everything under control."

"_No!_" I protested, as Ruth's screams continued to mingle with the cheery tunes of the ship's orchestra. I glanced around our boat. We were less than thirty in total, with plenty of empty space on the benches. "There's no way in hell this boat's full," I said quietly. "It's not just her daughter we should wait for. Ya need more people."

"Madam, that's for _us _to decide," he snarled.

I put my hands on my hips. "Oh it is, huh? Well, I'm sure the ship's architect would appreciate knowin you boys are-"

"And lower away!" called Lightoller. The boat jolted; I fell into a seat. The young crewman and I exchanged glares.

"Rose! _Rose! _No, wait!" Ruth not only remained standing as we shuddered downward; she reached up and clung to the side of the ship. "_Rose!_"

The other passengers tried to ease her down, telling her there were plenty more boats and not to worry. Ruth would hear none of it, and I understood why. Rose wouldn't leave _Titanic_ until her starry-eyed young artist was free. Ruth's feet began to lift from the lifeboat's floor as she held fast to the ship. I was surprised by her strength. As she lifted clear out of our boat, the others' encouragements to let go turned into desperate pleas.

"Hichens! Control your passengers!" commanded an officer on deck. The young man in charge of our boat lunged forward, grabbed Ruth around the waist and pulled her down. She crashed into the boat to a chorus of shrieks. Just then, we tilted in our descent, and the ladies screamed even more. The crewmen on deck worked to right us. I knelt over Ruth. She was trembling mightily, and keening her daughter's name.

I turned on Hichens. "For God's sake, man! What's the matter with ya?" I demanded. He glared at me, eyes bright, jowls trembling. Before I could browbeat him more, I noticed the sound of rushing water beneath us, and peered over the side of our boat. I had spotted our next problem.


	17. Seven Hours

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _and/or historical fact. See References for more information.

**My sources: **I break from canon with Cameron's film, as I'm not a huge fan of how he portrayed Margaret in the lifeboat, first with a tactless joke of "Now there's somethin ya don't see every day!" and then later as if she were the _only _woman in her boat with a heart. Both are not only patronizing, but historically inaccurate.

Speaking of history, this chapter is indebted to Kristen Iverson's _Molly Brown: Unraveling the Myth, _pp. 20-29, for some of the dialogue, and the general timeline of events. I do deviate from real events when it suits my story, provide my own descriptions of scenes and actions, and alter even the historically-based dialogue when it suits me.

**XVII. Seven Hours**

The bow of our little vessel was about to pass under a torrent of water being pumped back out of the foundering ship. I grabbed an oar, pried it against a porthole, and pulled back hard. "We've gotta move! It'll swamp us!"

Before Hichens could even turn and look, the young Englishwoman took an oar and aided my efforts. One or two others joined us, and we clumsily managed to "row" our lifeboat aft against the ship. The rest of the ladies scrambled to get as far away from the waterfall as possible. We reached the sea without taking on water. I looked through a porthole and saw a second-class stateroom flooding lopsidedly. The electric lights were still on; there were open suitcases on the beds. Hichens cast us off quickly, assisted by a stout, fiftyish Major Peuchen, who was allowed to enter our boat precisely because he was a skilled yachtsman.

"Now row towards the light!" came the instructions from above.

The English maid looked around, then bellowed upwards: "WHAT LIGHT?"

"Nellie!" chastised a young socialite in an overcoat and nightie. I knew her; her name was Julia Cavendish. Her reprimand was mild, as her maid had merely said what all of us were thinking.

"You, sir, take an oar," Hichens commanded Major Peuchen. "All of you, start rowing!" He stood on a small platform at the boat's stern, manning the tiller. He shivered and looked back up at _Titanic_. Just then another distress flare was launched. "The boat's going to founder!"

"_Our _boat!?"

"No!" he snapped, and gestured back towards the ship_. _"_That _boat! And she'll pull down everything for miles, so _row!_ Row faster!"

The boat's occupants, both young and old, manned the oars. (Although except for Major Peuchen, it would be more appropriate to say they "womanned" the oars.) Ruth lay on her side in the middle of the boat, moaning. "Ruth?" I noticed her guarding her right arm. "Ruth, are ya hurt?" I began to pull her up. She cried out when I pulled on her right hand.

"Get up and start rowing!" Hichens snapped.

"Can't ya see she's injured?" I protested. Ruth stared up at the seaman with glassy, pain-filled eyes.

"Ah, she's useless then!" he scoffed. The ladies murmured sympathy for Ruth and disapproval towards Hichens. I gently helped her up. Then I stood in the middle of the boat, removed my shoes, and peeled off each pair of stockings, one by one. I stood facing away from _Titanic._ I remember being astounded by just how deep, how consuming, was the darkness into which we paddled.

As I bared my legs and unwrapped my ankle, I began shivering violently. I put one pair of stockings back on and slid into my shoes; my tremors subsided enough for me to wrap Ruth's wrist. The joint hung weirdly, and even once the wrap was fastened, Ruth cradled the injury and gulped back tears. I suspected she had broken bones.

The women who departed _Titanic _in their silk nighties shivered, despite the exertion of rowing. I offered each of them an extra pair of my stockings, and then took a seat by the young maid. She grunted as she paddled in long, powerful strokes. "Darlin, ya row like a galley slave!" I marveled. She grinned as I grabbed the handle and joined her. "I'm Margaret, by the way."

"I'm Nellie. Pleasure to meet you, Margaret."

"Likewise, Nellie. Now let's show 'em what women's muscles are worth."

Our cheery words rang hollow in the current circumstances. _Titanic _still shone before us in the inky night, but her bow was almost dipped under. Lifeboats dangled from her side like parasites, as distress flares continued to launch once every few minutes. It was a bizarre sight, like nothing I have ever seen before or since. Over the motionless sea, we could still hear the noises of boat deck: the davits creaking, the band playing, and the sobs of families being torn apart.

The oars were very heavy, and rowing was hard work for me. I can't imagine what it was like for the ladies who didn't follow an exercise regimen. Yet they kept at it diligently and without complaint. I began to sweat beneath my heavy coats, but I would not remove any more clothing without good reason. The air was as cold as a Denver midwinter's night, only much more moist and heavy. After a while, my scalp felt stiff. I realized the sweat in my hair was freezing.

"Row! _Row!_" Hichens commanded. _What does he __think__ we're doing? _I wondered."She'll pull us under if you don't row faster!" he cried, even as _Titanic _shrank in our view. Now I'm no physics expert, and it's hard to say exactly how far we had rowed when there was nothing else in sight to use as a frame of reference. Still, I was fairly sure we had paddled far beyond the great ship's range of suction.

Besides, the sinking did not seem imminent. _Titanic_'s tilt increased and her bow submerged entirely, but the band still played. The electric lights still shone. Boat deck was still dry. _Just stay like this, _I prayed. _Stay still, for another hour or two, or however long it takes for the rescue ship to come…_

Hichens pulled the tiller to turn us. The air grew even heavier, and took on an earthy, primeval odor. We glided past a piece of ice, twice as high as our boat itself, glittering all too faintly in the looming dark. It would be the first of many.

Time passed. We kept rowing. The shouting above decks intensified. We heard quick, sharp explosions. "What are those noises?" the ladies wondered aloud. Major Peuchen assured them that the boilers deep in the ship were exploding. But I recognized the sound. Gunshots. Knowing that there were not enough lifeboats, I could guess what that meant.

Suddenly the air was filled with a disastrous symphony, from the delicate crashes of breaking china, to the deep rumbles of boilers breaking free and tumbling down the keel. With her contents sliding fore, _Titanic_'s stern rose quickly from the water. We all stopped rowing and watched, horrified. The lights flickered. Some singular, pitiful screams carried above the clamor. The ladies gasped: "Are there still people aboard?"

The lights went out for good. There was no moon, and we could only vaguely make out the shadow of the ship against a thick backdrop of stars. The rumblings gave way to the sounds of metal twisting, wood splintering, wires snapping. Survivors have debated whether the ship broke in two then. I believe that it did, or nearly did. The bow disappeared from sight. The stern rose up, a black void towering high in the glittering sky. For a moment she bobbed there, vertical. Then the sea opened up and swiftly, almost gently, swallowed her whole.

Then there were only the screams.

(line)

My J.J. once told me that "cold" does not exist; it's just the absence of heat. Likewise, I believe that hell is nothing more than the complete absence of love, both human and divine. Hell is not fire; it is ice. Survivors have tried to describe the cries of the people in the water, with metaphors about full stadiums, or crickets on a summer night. But I'll be blunt, Josephine: What we heard that night was the sound of hundreds of souls experiencing hell on earth.

The sheer horror pulled us all to our feet and pulled loved ones' names from our lips. "Oh, God! _Tyrell!_" wailed Julia Cavendish. Her husband's Christian name was joined by a chorus of other men's. Some of the younger women simply cried, _Father!_

"Thomas," I whispered. I crossed myself. _God, please be with him now._

I looked to Ruth. She was silent and still, and could not take her eyes off the sinking site. Her face was blue. _She hasn't been rowing, _I realized. _She's been sitting still this whole time. In this cold._

"We have to go back!" the cry went up. I joined in: "Yes, we have to! There's plenty of room for more!"

"No." Hichens' face was contorted. "They'll only pull us under. It's our lives now, not theirs."

"But it's their men out there!" I pleaded. In the space of just two minutes, the screams had already begun to fade. My heart pounded wildly. The weight of innocent deaths pressed down upon our shoulders.

"All that's out there now," Hichens replied, his voice halting, "is a lot of stiffs." Julia Cavendish wept. Feeling powerless to save anyone else, I went over to Ruth.

I threw my extra coat over her slight shoulders. "Ruth, sweetheart, it's your turn to row." She turned away. "Ruth, I know you're hurt, but can ya row some with your other hand? It'll keep ya warm." I took her by the shoulders, to turn her back to me. "Ya need to keep moving, Ruth-"

"NO!" she shrieked. She flailed and tried to push me away, clambering for the side of the boat. It dawned on me: _She's suicidal._ "No! No…" Nellie and I easily restrained her; she was weak and shivering. I pulled her to me. "No…" she moaned tearlessly. "No…"

The sea grew quiet. So did our boat, for what could we possibly say? The only thing worse than the screams when the people entered the water, was the silence that followed.

On occasion, match lights or even lanterns from other lifeboats flickered, dreamlike, out of the suffocating dark. Some time passed- I don't know how long- and we saw a light scanning the ocean's surface in the distance. We heard a Welshman; he sounded rather young and very scared: _Is there anyone alive out there? Can anyone hear me?... _I would later learn it was Fifth Officer Harold Lowe, and he had organized a rescue. Though he came too late for many, God bless him for trying.

A whistle pierced the air. First sporadic and frail, then stronger, insistent. I saw the lanterns stop still as Lowe's brave boat paused to make the rescue. I wept with tears of joy. In a place where silence meant death, the person blowing that whistle had died, and then come back to life.

(line)

There were some blankets in our boat; most went to Ruth. A few also went to Hichens, who continued to man the tiller rather than join us in rowing. This earned him a few well-deserved jabs from Major Peuchen, but the truly reprehensible thing was how he perched atop our boat and slowly, numbly, pronounced doom upon us all. "We have no food, no water… No ships are coming for us… If a storm comes we'll be swamped… We'll die out here, either drown, or starve, or freeze…"

Nellie, who I so admired for her strength thus far, stifled a sob. "Would ya keep it to yerself, for all our sakes!" I snapped. Hichens did not respond, not even in anger. "The sea is calm. Somebody'll come for us. We've got a good chance."

We ladies took turns sitting with Ruth and lending her our warmth. Otherwise we rowed, not so much because we had anywhere to go, but because the activity kept our blood flowing and our muscles warm. We panted with physical exertion. We sang to each other. We passed more ice. We commented on the loveliness of the stars, or the clear view of the Milky Way.

Our arms ached. Our legs were numb. Our faces were stiff. The palms of our gloves wore through, and the oars began to rub away at our hands. We kept rowing. When the eastern horizon began to glow, I was surprised. I suppose a part of me thought that daylight would never come.

It would never be quite the same again, at least.

We found ourselves in close proximity of a few lifeboats, and more than a few ice floes. We briefly tied up with another boat. They had more men aboard, and lent us a blackened, half-frozen coal stoker. As if our boat could not make do without men! I gave the poor man my other coat. Hichens and I argued over whether to cast off from the other boat and keep rowing, and the stoker chastised him for belittling me. "Don't ye know yer talkin to a lady?"

Nellie smirked at Hichens. In the daylight, she seemed older and more careworn than I remembered her on the ship. Though perhaps my memory was not at fault. Hichens glared at me as he answered the stoker: "I know what I am speaking to." Despite his insistence that he was in charge of the boat, we soon cast off and continued rowing- the course of action that I had argued for.

It seemed a mirage at first, but we gradually realized a steamship was approaching in the rosy predawn. She fired flares to signal her presence, as she moved slow and cautious through the ice fields. "Shall we row towards her?" said Julia Cavendish. There were general nods of agreement.

With cool, unneeded cruelty, Hichens retorted, "No, madam. She's only here to pick up the bodies."

I had had it. "Alright, one more word from ya and yer goin overboard," I growled. The others laughed and jeered at him. I thought of all my boxing practice. "Don't think I can't do it, sir."

"She can," Ruth nodded. "Trust me."

The day dawned hazy, with roughening seas. After four days of smooth sailing on a huge ship, it seemed a cruel stroke of fate that the seas grew choppy only once we were out bobbing in little boats. It took us a long time to approach the rescue ship_,_ and longer still to effectively come alongside.

Our salvation came from a modest steamer named the _Carpathia._ As they lowered a sling for our injured, Major Peuchen pulled out his pocket watch and reported the time. "It's nearly eight o'clock."

We had been in the boat for seven hours.


	18. A Floating Palace

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**Scene from Cameron's film: **We see Cal searching steerage for Rose on Monday morning, and Rose giving her name as "Rose Dawson" before disembarking the _Carpathia._

**XVIII. A Floating Palace**

They hauled our weak and injured up in canvas slings, like cargo, and then the rest of us ascended a rope ladder. Nellie and I were the last two women in the boat. "Ladies first," Hichens grumbled, gesturing towards the ladder.

"Oh, so _now _he's chivalrous," grumbled my flaxen-haired young friend. I laughed mirthlessly.

_Carpathia _passengers and crew greeted us right on the promenade, throwing blankets over our shoulders and shoving piping hot mugs of coffee and tea into our numb hands. They guided us into the ship's saloon, which was packed with hundreds of quiet, solemn survivors. The stronger ones stood in corners or sat at long tables. Others rested on pallets laid out in a cleared corner.

The seriously injured were taken straight to the ship's hospital. A lone doctor double-checked on the presumably healthy in here. He tried in vain to corral the occupants of my lifeboat as we came in, but many were too eager to be reunited with relations from other boats. "Can I take your name, ma'am?" he asked me. He was middle-aged, long-faced, and spoke with a Midwestern accent.

"Margaret Brown."

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brown. I'm Dr. Frank Blackmarr." He chuckled to himself as he jotted my famous moniker on a clipboard. He checked my eyes and throat, and asked if I felt ill or had any injuries.

"None ya wouldn't expect after seven hours rowing in the North Atlantic."

He smiled slightly. "Your lifeboat had one of the longest ordeals of any. You ladies were real troopers by the looks of it." He nodded towards my frayed gloves, and I turned my hands over. We were both surprised by the extent of the damage. My palms were covered in open, bleeding blisters.

Dr. Blackmarr dug into his bag on a nearby table and pulled out some ointment, bandages, and a pair of glasses. He put on the glasses and drew my hands close to him. A wave of déjà vu made me start to cry.

"Is everything alright, Mrs. Brown?"

I nodded and fought back my tears.

He lowered his voice. "Did you have family on board?"

"No family." My voice trembled. "Just… good friends."

There was a brief pause. The doctor turned his attention on my hands. I saw his own eyes were glistening. "I'm really sorry to hear that, ma'am."

When he finished with me, Dr. Blackmarr turned to Nellie and asked her name. "Helen Barber," she reported.

_Thomas's wife's maiden name._ I damn nearly lost it. Then I vaguely noticed that everyone in the room appeared to be well-off. "Where are the third-class passengers?" I asked.

"On the poop deck. But don't worry, Mrs. Brown, we…" I didn't catch the rest of Dr. Blackmarr's sentence; I was already out the door.

Half a dozen well-intentioned crewmen tried to stop me. I was told that I needed to rest, the _Carpathia _already had interpreters, a lady of my station needn't worry about the steerage folk… I of course didn't listen. Just like in the lifeboat, I found that the important thing was to keep moving.

I ran into Cal Hockley as he climbed back up the stairs from poop deck. He was still in his dinner tuxedo, though the jacket was considerably worse for wear. I immediately understood why he was down here. "Is Rose…?"

He shook his head.

"Cal…" My emotions welled again. "I'm very sorry."

He sighed deeply. "I really did love her, Mrs. Brown."

For a moment we just stared at one another. He blinked frantically, looking like he might cry. If only the man had shed a tear then, I may have had at least an ounce of respect for him. He did not.

(line)

Huddled in blankets, their faces harrowed, the steerage survivors were an overwhelmingly female crowd. They sat alone or in clusters of just two or three, each a world unto herself. I didn't know where to start, so I sat and talked with them one by one.

Some gave me blank stares. At first I tried introducing myself in my other languages. One woman glared at me through all four introductions, only to reply slowly in perfect English: "Please, leave me alone. I just lost my husband." I felt ashamed. From then on, if my English offer to help didn't at least pique curiosity, I nodded sympathetically and moved on.

Others, it seemed, couldn't wait to launch their questions upon me. I soon noticed a pattern of common inquiries. _I left my money on the ship. How will I get through customs?... Can you help me wire my parents and let them know I'm safe?... Why must we sit out here? I'm cold, and I don't want to look at the ice… Did another ship come and pick up the rest? Please. He __must__ be on another ship…_

To the first two questions, I promised to do everything I could. I didn't know what to say to the latter two.

A _Carpathia _interpreter approached me, complimented me on my Italian accent, and asked if I was Margaret Brown. When I told him that I was, he said a friend of mine had been asking for me, and he led me to the captain's quarters. My heart pounded all the way there. There were several people it could be. But to entertain the thought that any one of them waited for me, was to court the idea that the others were dead.

My stateroom on _Titanic, _modest by first-class standards, outclassed the dignified but Spartan accommodations of our rescue ship's very captain. It was Maddie Astor who rested beneath the covers of the long, narrow bed. I pulled up a desk chair and sat beside her. Her eyes fluttered open. When she recognized me, she gasped. "Oh, thank God!"

"Maddie." I put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?" She nodded. She wore a _Carpathia _passenger's plain flannel nightie. Her mousy hair clung to the sides of her face, and her eyes were wide and dark. She looked like a child.

"J.J. told them about my condition and asked to get in the boat with me, but they said no," she told me. "There were extra seats." Her face crumpled. She choked through sobs, "I don't understand. Why wouldn't they let him in? There was _room, _Molly! _Why wouldn't they let him in?_"

For once, I could not explain things to young Maddie Astor. I later learned that the lifeboats paddled away with close to five hundred empty seats, while hundreds of husbands and fathers stood on _Titanic_'s decks and watched. _Why wouldn't they let them in? _I have asked that same question many times.

As I tried to console Maddie, Captain Rostron came in and introduced himself. Just approaching middle age, he was young for a sea captain, with an energetic manner and a clean, middle-class English accent. He came prepared with two steaming cups of tea, and asked if there was anything else he could bring us. I liked him immediately.

"Mrs. Astor, you're welcome to stay here for the rest of the voyage," he said. Maddie whispered her thanks. To me he offered, "Mrs. Brown, there are still more passengers willing to give up their beds, if you would like one."

"Thank you, sir, but unless there's beds for everyone, I'll take a pallet gladly."

He gracefully accepted my gesture. "Of course. Let me know if there is anything I can do to be of assistance to either of you ladies."

Maddie replied that she had everything she needed. I asked only that they find a place indoors for the third-class survivors, (the captain assured me this was already in-progress,) and that I be kept informed of the relief efforts and any ways that I could help.

Maddie began to nod off, so Captain Rostron and I stood and left together. "My passengers and crew are doing everything they can," he assured me. "We deeply appreciate your help, Mrs. Brown, but please, allow yourself the rest you need."

I nodded. As we wound through _Carpathia_'s cramped, austere crewmen's passages, we passed women with their arms full of blankets, and a man pushing a cart of hot drinks. "God bless you all," I marveled.

The captain paused. "Mrs. Brown, might I ask you something? As one person of faith to another?"

"Of course."

He spoke softly. "I'm leading a memorial service soon… It would be cruel, to leave people with false hope, but I wonder if the reality is too much to share just yet…" Before I could ask, he swallowed hard and explained, "We know for a fact that we are the only rescue ship. There were 2,200 people aboard _Titanic. _This morning… we rescued about seven hundred."

_We lost 1,500 people? _The hallway seemed to sway; the captain reached out to steady me. "Tell them." My throat felt thick. "But… make sure they're sitting down."

Captain Rostron waited with me until I was ready to walk again. At the end of the hallway, one of the ship's doctors guarded a closed door. A man in an officer's uniform tried to enter, but the doctor sternly shooed him away. The captain noticed me watching. "J. Bruce Ismay," he explained. "He's in a bad way."

"Injured?"

He sighed deeply. "Not physically, no."

My visceral reaction startled and shamed me, but I cannot deny it. It was hatred. _That coward! Why should __he__ be the one who lived?_

(line)

Captain Rostron's memorial service, brief but with well-chosen words, was like balm for our hurting souls. At the end, he broke the news much the same way he had done so to me. Many wept.

I looked around _Carpathia_'s dated, humble saloon. I saw both of the Duff-Gordons. I saw neither of the Strauses. I saw Madame Aubart, but not Benjamin Guggenheim. John Thayer was missing, but Marian clung to young Jack in tears of joy. She told anyone who would listen that she had believed Jack to be dead for hours, and then he was miraculously returned to her. I was almost glad then that Ruth DeWitt Bukater had been injured. It meant she was given private accommodations, and didn't have to witness Marian's Lazarus testimony about her child.

I managed to eat. I attempted to sleep. Time, which at first had seemed frozen, gradually began moving again. Whenever I had the strength, I busied myself collecting telegram messages from third-class survivors. I paid the sending fees out of pocket; it was the least I could do.

While a few despicable souls complained that every steerage person saved was a waste of boat space, most of those in first and second class were sympathetic to the "plight of the steerage." Many preferred to help with their funds, rather than their hands and feet. Seeing the desperation of so many widows housed in the lower decks, I can only half blame them.

Thus the Titanic Survivors' Committee was formed, and its respective relief fund. They appointed me chair, and I hold the position to this day. One of the most moving offers of help came from Maddie Astor. A placid young girl, and a weak and ill one at that, she somehow found the initiative to write out a personal check for two thousand dollars. And she promised me more once we reached New York.

As stories from the sinking began to surface, I clung to those that gave me hope. Perhaps my favorite, to this day, is the story of Isidor and Ida Straus. Ida had already entered a boat when her pragmatism and love for Isidor spurred her to return to _Titanic. _Witnesses say that she told Isidor,"We have been married for over forty years. Where you go, I go." There were offers to see both of them into the boat, but the elderly couple would hear nothing of it, preferring that their seats go to younger souls. They were last seen sitting together calmly in a pair of deck chairs.

Of course the Strauses should not have died on _Titanic_. _Nobody_ should have died on _Titanic_. However, given the circumstances, they showed great courage, and I believe that what they did was right.

I soon heard stories about Thomas, of course. He had calmly urged people to the boats, thrown deck chairs overboard for use as flotation devices, and then honorably waited for the end in the first-class smoking room. Even the third-class survivors talked of him; there was a story of him giving his personal lifebelt to a poor young passenger who misplaced her own.

These were good stories, valiant stories, but I could not let them in too deep. They would release more tears of mourning than were rightfully mine to shed.

I saw a handful of men among the third-class survivors, but I never saw Jack, or any of his poker buddies. On our last full day aboard _Carpathia, _I did encounter one familiar face. "Mi ricordo di te!" she announced with a brave smile. "Margaret!"

"Giovanna!" I asked her all the usual questions. Was she well? Did she need anything? Did she need to get in touch with her family? Would there be someone to meet her at Ellis Island? The young woman answered every question to my satisfaction. Moreover, she seemed tranquil, almost happy. For this reason, I dared to hope her man was among the few who lived.

"Dov'è Salvatore?" I asked.

She cast her eyes downward and pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders. I realized then that her cheer had been a brave front. Her musical voice turned hard and flat. "Gone."

I crossed myself, then murmured. "Mi dispiace, Giovanna."

She acknowledged my sympathies with a nod. "E Thomas?" she asked solemnly.

Of course. She remembered him. She remembered _us. _"Gone," I replied.

She crossed herself. "Mi dispiace, Margaret." For a moment we stood still. She fixed me with a gentle, patient stare.

But I could not stay and grieve with her. I excused myself and went above decks. As we approached the Eastern Seaboard, the weather was warm, but rainy and windy. The small, plain promenade was empty. I found a bench where I could sit alone, and let the rain mask my loud, undignified tears.

_He's gone… gone… gone…_

(line)

When my daughter Helen and I toured the Alhambra palace in Spain, our guide told us a story of the Moorish king Isma'il I, who saw his palace floating on air one night in his dreams. Upon awakening, he sent for his best architect and demanded he make the palace float, or else he would lose his head.

The architect designed a large, standing pool, with a special pump that would replenish the pool with fresh water without rippling the surface. This was quite advanced technology in the fourteenth century. The pool was constructed in a courtyard sheltered from the wind, and its innovative pump was a success. Thus, the surrounding palace appeared to "float" in a liquid mirror. King Isma'il was so impressed with the realization of his dream, that he spared the architect's life.

In my mind, J. Bruce Ismay is King Isma'il, and Thomas Andrews was his chief architect, commissioned to build a palace that would only ever float. He knew the king's demand was impossible, but he did his best to create the illusion. It was a good faith effort; surely he did not expect the king to _actually_ fall for it. But unlike King Isma'il, J. Bruce Ismay took the illusion for fact.

And unlike the king's architect, Thomas Andrews' floating palace did not spare him his life; it cost him.

(line)

The lights of New York Harbor emerged from the rainy night. We packed the promenades: survivors of both genders and all classes, thrown together in solemn anticipation. In an hour or so, we would begin to go our separate ways, breaking our traumatized communion. Though in a sense, I believe we will all carry a kind of connection with one another to our deaths.

I found myself surrounded by the oddest assortment of young women. Maddie Astor, my friend Nellie with the uncanny last name, Giovanna and several others from third class… For the moment, it was as if I had half a dozen surrogate daughters. I let them hover around me, and tried not to think of how dearly I wished that Rose was among them.

The tugboat arrived to pull _Carpathia _to the Cunard pier. Unfortunately, it did not come alone. "Get out of the way! Let us through!" the crewmen bellowed at the other boats. They carried eager reporters, who flashed pictures and shouted for someone, _anyone, _to tell them their _Titanic _story_. _Some held up pieces of cardstock bearing their preferred interviewees' handwritten names: _Guggenheim. Hockley. Straus. Astor._

"Maddie, no," I warned. Anyone who had sailed on _Titanic _was a prime candidate to be lionized- or vilified. I already knew this, just from the talk that had spread aboard _Carpathia _these last few days. In addition to the heroic tales of some, I had heard outlandish whispers about others: stories that the Duff-Gordons had bribed their lifeboat's crew to not return to the ship for more people; that J. Bruce Ismay had been subpoenaed by the US federal government; that during the sinking, Caledon Hockley had chased his fiancée through the Grand Staircase and shot at her with his valet's gun. It would take time for the dust to settle and for reasonable minds to sift tall tales from fact.

Maddie didn't listen to me. She stepped towards the rail. I was glad to know she would be swiftly greeted by her father at the docks, for I was worried for her mental state. These past few days, her body had strengthened while her mind began to depart from reality. She walked around smiling vaguely and talking about how she _knew_ that John was alive. After all, when she got into the lifeboat, he had promised her that he would meet her in New York…

She called through the driving rain to a reporter in the nearest boat, "Hello! Have you seen my husband?"

The reporter didn't answer. Instead, as his boat came alongside, he leapt onto _Carpathia_'s deck. He was instantly tackled by half a dozen crewmen. Captain Rostron appeared, his face calm but his eyes flashing. "I want this man locked up!" he barked. "Take him to my quarters until we can hand him over to the NYPD. Don't let him speak to _anyone!_"

I explained to the non-English-speakers around me that the captain was making sure that man didn't bother us. My admiration for Captain Rostron, which was already tremendous, only increased now.

The crowds on the pier bewildered our tired minds. They numbered in the thousands: a waving, shouting mass of humanity, trying to push past policemen who held them back merely to prevent anyone from toppling into the harbor. While most of the crowd appeared to be desperately hopeful friends and family_, _there were also plenty of camera bulb flashes to announce the presence of the press.

The gangplank was laid across the gap. There was a moment's hesitation, as if the survivors nearest the exit were debating who should go first. _Oh, good grief! _I thought. For the past four days, most of us had no chance to bathe or change clothes, and had barely slept. _And now _they stalled?

At last, people began stepping off, slow at first, then in a steady stream that lasted for almost two hours. One by one, the young ladies around me gave me their parting embraces. Most would keep in touch in the future, even if only through a simple note or two addressed to the Titanic Survivors' Committee headquarters in New York.

I got off towards the end of the stream of departures. The press was distracted right now, and I could find my relations in peace. I was greeted by my brother, Daniel, and a good friend, Genevieve Spinner. "How's the baby?" I asked. "How's my grandson?"

"He's just fine," Daniel reported, beaming. "Everyone's just fine. Maggie, it was only today that we received confirmation that you'd survived! We were all so relieved- Lawrence and the family, Helen and the girls, even J.J.!"

For a few moments we cried, embraced, and thanked God for each other. Then I told them I had to get back on the ship. There were still survivors on board who spoke no English and had no waiting kin. I was one of several ladies who had resolved to stay on and help each one of them make arrangements.

Daniel and Genevieve made only a nominal effort to coax me back to the Ritz Carlton with them; they knew their pleas would fall on deaf ears. Then they bid me goodnight and good luck. Our greeting had felt so vivid, awfully strange and yet wonderfully familiar, that to say goodbye mere minutes later was nothing short of bizarre.

I kept working, kept moving, through the long night. _Carpathia_'s decks were nearly empty when the sky turned from black to navy, anticipating another rainy dawn. I was preparing to disembark for good, when I heard a familiar voice behind me:

"Dawson. Rose Dawson." A customs official jotted the name and moved on. Rose DeWitt Bukater stood in a men's overcoat, her red curls sodden. She ignored the rain and stared up at the Statue of Liberty.

I watched her every move in disbelief. _She's alive? Oh, thank God! She's alive!_ She pulled something out of her coat pocket, frowned, then slipped it back in. I gathered my wits and approached her.

"Bonjour, Rose."

"Molly!" she cried. At first she was stunned; then a tearful smile spread across her face. "Mon Dieu. Molly."

My mind worked furiously. I recalled watching Cal and Ruth disembark earlier that evening. Ruth clung to her would-be son-in-law's arm for the mere strength to walk. Cal let several reporters pay him handsomely for a public statement, before the two of them slipped into a motorcar bound for Philadelphia… "Rose," I began cautiously, still in French for privacy. "Ta mére…"

Her expression darkened. "Non." Then suddenly, she was off like a flash.

I ran after her. By some miracle, my exhausted old body caught up with hers before she reached the end of the gangway. I grabbed for fistfuls of her overcoat. I repeated, "Rose, ta mere!" _Rose, your mother!_ The gangplank swayed as we struggled.

"_Non!_" Her face was twisted in fear."Molly, je ne peux pas. Cal me tuerait!" she sobbed. _Molly, I can't. Cal would kill me!_

The shock of her words loosened my grip, and she broke free and ran onto the pier. A few belligerent reporters still lingered on the empty platform. They let her pass, perhaps thinking she did not speak English. But they encircled me greedily, blocking my path. I only saw Rose's escape by the streak of auburn as she passed beneath each streetlamp's isolated glow. She rounded a dark corner and disappeared into the city. The reporters' camera flashes half-blinded me:

_Mrs. Brown, is it true you single-handedly nursed Madeleine Astor back to health? Do you have any comment on Mr. J. Bruce Ismay's survival? How do you reply to your husband's comment that you're "too mean to sink?" Mrs. Brown, is it true that you threw the quartermaster of your lifeboat overboard?..._


	19. Anger

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**XIX. Anger**

The moving picture theaters profited from the footage of _Titanic_'s Southampton departure, while politicians and clergy refashioned her demise into whatever sort of morality tale furthered their own agendas. I could not understand why the world refused to see the sinkingfor what it was: the brutal, unromantic deaths of over 1,500 innocent people.

Though it was painful, I spoke and wrote openly to the press. I felt a responsibility to speak for the survivors whose stories were never publicized, due to either working-class anonymity, or a traumatized refusal to speak of the disaster. I also felt compelled to speak on behalf of the lost, and their families. I just wanted the world to understand.

But all my efforts were like spitting into the wind. I sowed statements about the cruelty of holding back steerage passengers and men from entering the boats, or the utter senselessness of not having enough lifeboats for everyone on board. I reaped bouquets and sympathy cards from friends, an honorary luncheon from one of my greatest Denver rivals, and the press branding me "the heroine of _Titanic._"

Perhaps most frustrating of all: the Senate inquiry seemed to be the only people on Earth who did _not _want to hear my account. And yet they gladly listened to Hichens! I must admit, Josephine, that still irks me more than I can say.

In May, I took part in a ceremony in New York to honor Captain Rostron and his entire crew. There was not a dry eye in the place. Afterwards, the captain and I spoke privately on _Carpathia's _deck. I gave him the Egyptian talisman that I had kept with me at all times during the rescue voyage.

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown. I will treasure this for the rest of my days." He cleared his throat, then asked, "How are you healing from all this?"

"Oh, just fine," I smiled, and showed him my unblemished palms. Though we both knew he spoke of deeper wounds than that.

"Good," he smiled. "I ask because I read Mr. Lightoller's testimony, about how the cries of the people in the water still trouble him. I only hope that you're keeping Philippians 4:8 in mind."

Coming from a lesser man, this bit of preaching would have annoyed me: but not coming from Captain Rostron. "I think of what's true and virtuous," I assured him. "Every day, I remember the Strauses… and I thank God for you and your crew." This almost sent us both into another round of tears.

By the fall of 1912, I corresponded regularly with Colonel Archibald Gracie, a writer and historian who had survived the sinking by clinging to an overturned lifeboat. He had spent several hours submerged up to his waist in the icy waters. While still recovering from his injuries, he was hoping to compile a thorough account of the disaster for the sake of posterity. His replies to my letters were always swift and lengthy, suggesting that he thought of little else besides his writing project.

In December, Colonel Gracie unexpectedly passed away. _Titanic _had managed to claim another life eight months after her sinking; that much was clear. But I found myself wondering: Were the shipwreck's lingering, lethal effects on the poor Colonel purely physical?

One quiet December morning, I sat in the library of my home in Denver. I had clippings of all my public statements on _Titanic _spread before me on the desk. I began to read through them, and soon noticed a pattern:

I was angry at the officers who bragged about barring arrogant gentlemen entrance to their boats. I was angry at those who forcibly dropped ladies in. I was angry at the ladies, allegedly the kinder and gentler sex, who left their husbands to die. I was angry that so many men had stayed behind and let their families lose their breadwinners. I didn't blame the men themselves, but rather, the society that so constrained them.

I was angry at the men who took the chance to get in a boat, warm and dry, and then contrived miraculous survivor stories rather than admit they simply got scared. I didn't begrudge them their lives. However, I felt that their tall tales insulted those who had died- and those who had lived after suffering through greater ordeals than they.

And then there was J. Bruce Ismay, the one person for whom I begrudged life itself. Publicly, I was angry over how he dishonored his company, and the people still aboard his ship. Privately, I was angry that _he_ was the one who lived, while Thomas- his close colleague, my friend, and a loving husband and father- was the one who died.

I was _angry. _And I was afraid. Since _Titanic, _I had maintained and even quickened my usual pace of travel within the States, moving from New York, to Denver, back to New York, to Newport, and now to Denver again. Each time, I hoped that a change in the nighttime air would clear my head of the screams… and yet I still heard them every night.

My maid came in with the daily paper and the mail. I opened a small envelope with an English return address: a Christmas card from the Rostrons. Beneath a photograph of the captain and his wife and children, there was a printed verse of Scripture:

_Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. –Proverbs 3:5_

How very fitting. Perhaps this verse had helped the good captain make his own peace with _Titanic_?

I padded across the fur rug to the window, and looked up at the solid serenity of the purple, snow-capped mountains. "Alright, God," I prayed aloud. "I can't make sense of it. Please, help me to trust You enough that I stop trying to."

Neither the nightmares nor the anger have entirely disappeared, even twenty years later. But after that day, they began to fade. In addition, for the first time in eight months, I could remember the beauty that was _Titanic. _I could see Rose's bright and hopeful smile again. I could hear Thomas's deep, warm laugh.

(line)

In April 1913, the other ladies of Lifeboat 6 surprised me with an honorary luncheon at Mon Etui, my home in Newport. Besides some less-than-ladylike jokes at Hichens' expense, we spoke little of the disaster itself; there were too many widows among us. Instead we talked of the future. For some, the upcoming season's weddings and cotillions filled the agenda. Others also had charity events and suffragettes' conferences on their minds.

I was surprised to see that Ruth DeWitt Bukater was not only in attendance, but seated at my same table. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and she wore an elegant, all-black crepe dress. She appeared to have lost a good deal of weight, which was startling, as the previous spring had not found her a plump woman. She kept her poise and nodded at all the right times, but only spoke once. "Molly." Her voice cracked. "I wanted to thank you… for what you did for me, in the boat."

It's true that she had never thanked me in person before then, but I did receive a obligatory thank-you note from her and Cal within a month of the sinking. Sensing her discomfort, I tried to wave away her thanks. "I appreciate that, Ruth, but you and Cal already-"

"No." Her voice, though still quiet, grew forceful. "Please, Molly, let me thank you properly."

I nodded. "Alright." Ruth blinked back her mild outburst, embarrassed. The other ladies stared. I had no idea what to make of this. "You're welcome, Ruth." I smiled politely.

Ruth stayed behind afterwards and offered to help clean up. Again, I did not know what to say. I stood at my kitchen window and watched as the frail, almost translucent socialite climbed a stepladder to retrieve the Japanese lamps from my porch awning. My cook stood close by her, looking nervous.

Maddie Astor had eagerly attended the luncheon, despite escaping in a different lifeboat. Now she came up and watched Ruth with me. "I know you don't put much stock in gossip, Molly," she half-whispered, "But you should know what they say about Ruth."

I thought of Ruth's silence throughout the luncheon while the other women spoke of the future. Her measured politeness today made her usual decorum on _Titanic _seem reckless and giddy by comparison. I had seen this kind of detached politeness before… My stomach sank with dread. "What do they say?"

"They say that the Hockleys' insurance claim from the sinking paid off her husband's debt, but she has no funds of her own and nowhere to go. They say she's not on the Philadelphia social register this year- or _any _social register, for that matter. Apparently she's living in the Hockleys' row home on 'Society Hill,' which is truly a misnomer these days. Some days she has outbursts at the staff, or goes down to Boathouse Row and just stares at the water, but most days she doesn't do much of anything."

"Dear God," I whispered.

Maddie continued, "I think she's only helping clean up… because she doesn't want to leave."

"I think you're right." I decided then: "And she doesn't have to."

(line)

I offered to let Ruth stay at Mon Etui for the summer, but the offer was not without conditions. I started small. First, I insisted she come to dinner with my nieces and me each day, and at least eat _something. _After several weeks, I began rather forcefully inviting her to join me on my walks. Whenever I went somewhere in Newport, I walked: whether to a suffragettes' meeting at Alva Belmont's home, or to Maddie's house to play with the baby, or simply down to the Cliff Walk for some fresh sea air.

It was on the Cliff Walk one summer day that Ruth remarked, "I read that you believe women whose husbands and children stayed on _Titanic, _should have stayed behind as well."

I knew where she was going with this. I sighed. "Look, Ruth… After the sinking, I spewed a lot of venom. I didn't really mean it."

"No, you did mean it, Molly. And you were right," she replied, her voice hard-edged. We stopped still in our walk. "Some of us had nothing else to live for."

I was speechless. I stared across the bay to the colonial homes and towering oaks of Middletown. For a moment all was silent except the sea breeze. Then Ruth continued:

"I have no family of origin to speak of. George is dead. And our other babies…"

I turned and saw Ruth covering her mouth with a trembling hand. Tears brimmed in her pale blue eyes. She blinked and gulped them back.

"Rose was all I had. I only wanted to give her everything she deserved, but I had nothing left. Cal… He was supposed to make her happy. He was supposed to _protect _her. Instead, he-"

She broke off again, and shook her head furiously at the water before us. She hugged her light shawl so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her voice grew quick and animated.

"You should have seen him, the first few months. He was obsessed with this notion that she'd survived. He even hired a private investigator! At first I was hopeful. I tried to help him. But then I saw there was no kindness in his search. He wanted to hurt her; he wanted revenge. Now I pray, if she _is _somehow alive, that he never finds her…"

As she began to break down, I reached out and pulled her to me. She cried ugly, angry sobs against my shoulder. I shed a few tears myself, just from witnessing such deep anguish.

"I _hate _him! And I hate _myself, _for depending on him! I won't go back to his parents' home, Molly! I won't! I'd sooner kill myself!"

She would never go back to the Hockleys. I resolved to make sure of that, even if it meant she lived at my Rhode Island home for the rest of her life.

(line)

At forty-three rooms, Mon Etui was considered a "humble cottage" by Newport standards, but two people could easily reside there without crossing paths every day. Once I knew Ruth was recovering from _Titanic, _this is precisely what she and I did. When we saw one another, we were kindly and warm. But we would not become the closest of friends.

Unlike her Biblical namesake, Ruth was not willing to go everywhere that I went in the years to follow. The terror-stricken mining camps in the aftermath of the Ludlow massacre come to mind, as do the army hospitals of Paris during the Great War. As for me, there were a thousand times that I thought to tell Ruth that Rose had survived. And a thousand times, I thought of Cal and held back. This of course made it difficult for me to open my heart to Ruth like a sister.

Instead, it was Newport society widow Alva Belmont who took Ruth under her wing. Perhaps they bonded over their common experience of sudden loss. (Alva's second husband died of a brief illness when he was only fifty.) I know that their shared East Coast, "old money" sensibilities- the likes of which I so famously lack- also helped them to hit it off.

Nonetheless, Alva's progressive politics challenged Ruth to expand her world. Ruth joined the Political Equality League and began helping Alva to plan League events, even working for a time as her personal secretary. But it was the Women's Trade Union League, another one of Alva's favored causes, that truly captured Ruth's heart.

"I have always been horrified by the mistreatment of the factory seamstresses," she wrote to me in 1918. "To work on their behalf has been tremendously rewarding. I don't have your courage, Molly; I can't bring myself to set foot on a ship again, let alone come and help tend to the troops. However, I do have the courage to speak up on behalf of these dear, hardworking women, and I exercise that courage as often as I can."

We won the vote in 1920, and Alva- who had family in Europe- decided to refocus her efforts on women's rights and suffrage abroad. Fortunately, Ruth was well-prepared for the transition. She had branched out, so that her mentor moving across the Atlantic was not a devastating loss.

Ruth had worked with Lucy, Lady Duff-Gordon on events to raise awareness of the common seamstresses' plight among high-end fashionistas. Noting Ruth's organizational skills, as well as her fashion taste, Lucy offered her a job as a consultant in 1915. By 1920, Ruth was the manager of Lucy's New York salon. When Lucy began to withdraw from her salons in the mid-1920's, Ruth resigned and opened her own boutique. In all this time, she faithfully continued her philanthropic work with the WTUL.

Then, three years ago, the market crashed. I remember initially thinking: _The press is causing a ruckus over nothing. Nobody's died. So it's not a tragedy. _But soon enough, there were Wall Street casualties after all. Among them was Caledon Hockley.

For years I had secretly contemplated what I might do if I outlived Rose's ex-fiance, and now I sprang into action. I hired a private investigator immediately. Since I knew that Rose had used the last name "Dawson" after _Titanic, _I hoped my PI would succeed where Cal's had failed. I gave him strict instructions, if he found Rose, to only give her Ruth's address and phone number. He was to make no mention of me.

Then I tried to put the whole issue out of mind; I was willing myself _not _to meddle.

(line)

**A/N:** Philippians 4:8 reads (in the King James Version): "Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things." Proverbs 3:5 as quoted in this chapter is also quoted from the KJV.


	20. Auld Lang Syne

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**My sources: **Rose's married last name, the fact that she has children, and the fact that she flew a plane and worked as an actress, are from James Cameron's _Titanic. _All other details of her and Ruth's futures are my own.

**XX. Auld Lang Syne**

On the afternoon of 26 December, 1929, I received a long-distance telephone call at my home in Denver. "This is Margaret Brown. To whom am I speaking?"

Ruth DeWitt Bukater shrieked with joy. (Now _there's _a sentence I used to think I would never have occasion to write.) "MOLLY! Rose is alive! And she's _here! _With her family! I'm a grandmother, Molly! _A grandmother! _Rose has a very nice husband, a two-year-old girl and a baby boy. And you'll never guess the children's names." She paused a beat for emphasis. "Margaret and Thomas."

I gasped, and had to move to sit down. _Margaret and Thomas?... Could it be… they're named for us? …Did we really mean that much to her?_

"Do you have plans for New Year's, Molly?" Ruth inquired.

I had some social calls and trips to Denver's Broadway Theater planned, but no family commitments. Most of my family hadn't spent Christmas in Denver in years, and I was only wintering here out of force of habit. "Not really," I admitted.

"Well you do now!" She playfully ordered, "I want you on the next train to New York City."

For nearly an hour, Ruth bragged to me all about Rose's life: the adventures she had before settling down, and the sweet and lovely family she had now. I listened in a daze, still dumbfounded by Rose's children's names. _Margaret and Thomas…_

"Oh, listen to me," Ruth fussed, "talking your ear off when we'll have plenty of time to discuss all of this in New York. I can even show you the photo albums! That is, if you do want to come…"

"Of course I do!" I blurted. "But do ya have room?" I knew that Ruth's Park Avenue loft was finely furnished, but on the small side.

"It's a little tight, but we're making do. The important thing is that we're all together."

There was a time when I never thought I would hear such a thing from Ruth DeWitt Bukater. "Well," I smiled. "How'd you like to be all together in a suite at the Central Park Ritz-Carlton?"

(line)

It had been seventeen years since I last saw Rose. In 1929, that equated to half her lifetime thus far. Naturally, we cried enough tears to fill the Mojave Desert, and hugged each other until we could hardly breathe. Long after we finished making fools of ourselves, I would catch myself just taking in the reality of her. She had grown deeper-voiced and rubenesque. Her clothes were plain and practical, and her hair pulled back in a simple braid.

She was beautiful.

I had to wonder what Rose made of the changes in her mother. These days, the once straight-laced Ruth wore flowing, Grecian-inspired dresses, flashy scarves, bangle jewelry, and her hair in an extravagant bun. Of course the most drastic change was in her presentation. She stood tall and proud without a corset, and spoke her mind with great expression.

She also wrote up an itinerary for every day we spent together at the Ritz-Carlton. A tendency towards control was one thing that the Ruth of 1912 and the Ruth of 1929 had in common, even if the 1929 manifestation was much more benign.

We entertained the children in the morning, bundling them up and then taking them to Central Park, the zoo, or FAO Schwarz. Then, while the others took the children back to the hotel to rest, we took turns going out for lunch in pairs at Manhattan's finest restaurants. Afternoon or evening might find some of us at the Metropolitan Art Museum, or at a Broadway show. Whenever she was back in the suite, Ruth insisted we break out a board game, or the photo albums…

At the age of sixty-two, such a flurry of activity was beyond my capabilities. On New Year's Eve, I was rudely awakened by a migraine. I informed Ruth, then drew the curtains against the daylight and crawled into my down bedding cocoon until mid-afternoon. At the time it seemed quite an ordeal; these days, I would give anything to have one of my migraines last only six hours or so!

When I emerged from my room, the children were playing quietly on a blanket on the living room floor. Rose's husband was sprawled on the sofa above them, reading a book. His name was Henry Calvert. He was a slight, mild-mannered man, originally from Wisconsin. When we first met, I noticed the smudge on the outside of his pinky and asked what he did for a living. "I'm a journalist. But don't let that worry you, Mrs. Brown," he'd smiled. "I never liked the _Denver Times._"

Now I asked him, "Where are the ladies?"

"Shopping," he reported. "Ruth wants to give Rose an entire new wardrobe. _This_ should be interesting."

We both chuckled as I eased myself down onto the blanket. Little Maggie climbed into my lap and wordlessly presented me with her rag doll. I fussed over them both accordingly. Baby Tommie stopped stacking blocks for a moment and stared at me in calm curiosity. The children had taken to me quite nicely, and I didn't even have to bribe them with sweets! They warmed my heart, especially since I seldom saw my own grandchildren.

Henry gestured towards the thick wool blanket's block pattern. "Is this Navajo?"

"It sure is," I smiled. "I bought it in Colorado, ages ago."

"It's a real beaut."

"Thanks. Think ya could find use for it in your home?"

Henry cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and returned to his book. _I've scared him off,_ I thought. He was a quiet mystery, this one. Yesterday I found out he'd served in France in the Great War, before he and Rose married. He and I talked about the war for all of five minutes, before he returned to listening quietly as Ruth told us about her work, or Rose and I swapped stories of our acting careers.

"Look, I didn't mean to embarrass ya. I just like to give people my nice things," I explained. "My children say I'm too soft in that respect…"

He dog-eared his book and sat up straighter on the chenille sofa. "No, it's fine. I appreciate it. It's just… How do you know my wife, again, Mrs. Brown?"

When we spoke on the phone five days ago, Ruth warned me that Rose had never told her husband about _Titanic, _and didn't wish to speak of the ship with anyone. I was a little uncomfortable with this deceit, but played along. I understood that a first family reunion in almost two decades might not be the time to breach such delicate matters. I also knew that for me to preach to Ruth DeWitt Bukater about the virtues of complete honesty would be wildly hypocritical.

"Oh, ya know, I knew her and her mother in high society, back in the day," I lightly replied. Henry clearly wasn't buying it. His blue eyes, though gentle, were a little too intent on me. "Why do you ask?"

He bit his lip, hesitating over words that he must have thought for years, but had never before spoken aloud. "Because… my wife has told me she ran away from her mother and fiance in 1912, but she's never given me any details. She cried when the _Britannic _sank. Sometimes she talks about icebergs and lifeboats in her sleep. And now I find out that she's friends with you."

I sighed. "Well…" I was going to debate Henry calling Rose and me 'friends,' and claim we were only acquaintances. But he had seen the spark of mutual understanding in our eyes as we talked about the theater. He had heard me call Rose "darlin," and her refer to me as "dear Molly," many times in the past three days.

As I stalled, Henry got up and went into his and Rose's bedroom. His nine-month-old son whimpered and crawled after him. Maggie sprang up from my lap. "Tommie, wait!" she demanded.

I pulled myself off the floor and onto the sofa. Henry returned and scooped Tommie into his arms, then shifted the baby against his side and handed me a small, hardback book. _Thomas Andrews: Shipbuilder, _by Shan F. Bullock.

"And as long as I've known her, this has been her most prized possession."

Entranced, I began flipping through the book. Henry's accusation brought me back:

"I know how you know my wife, Mrs. Brown. With all due respect, I'm not dumb. I know who my children are named for."

Maggie, half-comprehending, gave me a worried look. I pressed a hand against my still-aching forehead. "Are you angry?" I asked Henry.

"Only that she won't tell me," he admitted. "Does she think I can't handle it?"

I was blunt. "Yes, she does. No one can quite handle _Titanic._" I pushed back the memory of the screams. My voice grew husky."Including us survivors."

Henry's brow was furrowed. "But I've lived through the trenches! How could it be any worse than _that_?" He flushed and took a sudden interest in the Berber carpet. "You must think I'm being paranoid, overbearing…"

I shook my head. _No, son, I think you're human. I've seen a man be paranoid and overbearing towards your wife, and that is __not__ you. I wish she would tell you. I wish I could tell Ruth that I knew Rose was alive all along. Maybe, someday…_

I stood up. Henry bounced his son against his hip and waited for my response. I searched in vain for the words he needed to hear.

"Henry, _Titanic _wasn't any better or worse than the war, it was just… different. I can't explain. I'm sorry Rose hasn't been able to tell you, but she must have her reasons…" I sighed again. "Women's secrets run deep."

I turned the little book over in my hands.

"Especially the women of _Titanic._"

(line)

Since December of 1912, I had thought of him often, and fondly, but I didn't think too hard. The memories could come and go into my mind freely, like birds landing on a perch. I only ever spoke of him when specifically asked to do so, and those occasions were rare and brief.

I agreed with the popular opinion that Thomas Andrews was a good man who had built a good ship, a hero who did not deserve any blame for the sinking. I had heard about Bullock's biography when it was first published, but I never bought it. I had never felt ready to read it…

But when Henry Calvert placed it in my hands, I figured that was as good a time as any. Finally, I took another soul-warming, two-hour walk with my good friend. Only this time, instead of _Titanic_'s boat deck, I walked across the key moments of his life.

_Quite early, young Tom, like many another lad, developed a fondness for boats, and because of his manifest skill in the making of these he gained among his friends the nickname of "Admiral."…_

_He mastered everything with the ease of one in love with his task… "It seemed his delight," writes a foreman, "to make those around him happy…"_

…_his brown eyes met yours with a look of frankest kindliness, and when he gripped your hand he took you, as it were, to himself… He loved to hear a good story, and could tell you one as well as another… Others tell how unassertive he was, and modest in the finest sense…_

"_He had a grand eye for good work and a good man, and the man who did good work, no matter who he was, got a clap on the shoulder." …he saw (Titanic) grow up, frame by frame, plate by plate, day after day throughout more than two years; watched her grow as a father watches his child grow…_

"…_noticing a long file of men going home from work, he turned to me and said, 'There go my pals, Nellie.' I can never forget the tone in his voice as he said that, it was as though the men were as dear to him as his own brothers."…_

"_He… made you feel on the ship that all was right… he talked almost constantly about his wife, little girl, mother and family, as well as of his home."…_

_He said it was very serious; then, bidding her keep the bad news quiet for fear of panic, he hurried away to the work of warning and rescue… "He was here, there and everywhere… looking after everybody… thinking of everyone but himself…" "Surely of all men worth saving he ought to have been saved. Yes, saved by force, for only in that way would it have been done."…_

The pale winter sunset had passed by the time I got up. I washed my face with cold water, put on an evening gown, and returned to the living room. Henry still read while the children napped. "What'd you think?" he asked as I handed him the book.

"It was lovely."

"It's certainly poetic. Did you know Andrews at all?" he asked. I could only nod. Trying to lighten the mood, he remarked, "You know, I wonder what he'd think of the new skyscrapers today."

I thought for a moment. "Well, he'd be glad none of the workmen have died on the Chrysler Building." I tried to imagine his opinion of the architecture itself, but nothing came to me.

Henry got up to return the book to Rose's suitcase. I sat in a plush armchair and watched the children sleep. Maggie had Henry's dirty-blonde hair color and ruddy complexion, but Rose's wild and beautiful curls. Tommie's peach fuzz suggested he was going to inherit his mother's hair color. He certainly had her pale complexion; his sleeping face was as round and white as a full moon.

I heard Ruth and Rose approaching in the hall. "I still can't believe that you flew an airplane!" Ruth declared.

"Well, I co-piloted an old double-wing, for all of an hour… What _I _can't believe is that you've met Coco Chanel!"

"Yes, well, we didn't speak for very long. She can be pretty snobbish. I think she found me _beneath _her."

Mother and daughter giggled as they burst into our suite, laden with bags from Macy's, Saks Fifth Avenue, and of course DeWitt Bukater Fashions. A bellhop came in with even more bags, and a box emanating a divine, bakery scent. The children rubbed their eyes and sat up.

"Grandmother brought donuts for everyone!" Ruth grandly announced. Maggie shrieked and dove for the box. Tommie clapped his little hands. Rose took a donut for herself and gave the baby a small piece. I rummaged in the kitchenette for napkins, while Ruth called room service for dinner and a bottle of champagne.

Henry reemerged just then. "What's going on?"

"Mm! New Year's donuts," Rose said thickly through a mouthful of the stuff. "Tradition."

The Midwesterner turned to me, bemused. "Is that an East Coast thing?"

"I suppose," I shrugged. "Sure beats what we had growin up."

"In Cedar Rapids, we used to eat cabbage on New Year's Eve," Henry offered.

I laughed. "That's what we used to do in Hannibal!"

"Cabbage? As a _holiday treat_?" Rose pulled a face. "Well, that simply won't do. Come, Henry, Molly; let us teach you our Philadelphian ways!"

We savored the donuts, and then topped them off with a genuine first-class dinner from room service. We took the children over to the wide window by the balcony. Our suite had a clear view of the ball at Times Square glowing from thirteen blocks away. We explained how later that night, the ball would lower and then it would be 1930.

Tommie stared and babbled pensively. He was the definition of an 'easy' baby: cautiously curious, generally content. His older sister was a spitfire- independent, not easily impressed, very much her mother's daughter. The toddler jutted her chin haughtily and informed us, "That's _silly_."

Ruth chuckled. "Grown-ups do silly things sometimes, sweetheart."

We helped the children play with their new toys. Then Rose read them _Winnie the Pooh _and put them to bed. Ruth asked Rose if she would like to show Henry and me some of the clothes they'd bought that day. We settled in the living room to relax and chat while Rose changed into each outfit in her mother's bedroom. Ruth and Henry smoked and I had another donut. We all had some champagne- especially Rose, who modeled each ensemble with greater theatric flair than the last. I still remember one in particular, the one that Ruth called her "spring and summer evening gown."

"Mother has _finally_ admitted that this is my color." Rose sashayed out in a short-sleeve, knee-length lavender dress. The sheer fabric was loose, yet showcased her ample curves. Henry whistled. "Thank you, thank you," she smiled. She grasped the marble mantelpiece with one hand, threw her head back and placed the back of her other hand against her forehead. "I feel so ravishing, I can hardly _stand_ it!" We all laughed.

"You forgot the scarf, dear!" Ruth lightly scolded. "You _must_ show them the scarf; it completes the outfit."

Rose rolled her eyes and growled in jest. _"Mother._" She returned to the bedroom, calling out as she rummaged through the bags, "Just how many scarves do you own, now?"

Ruth gave Henry and me a wry shrug. We snickered tipsily. "I lost count _years_ ago, my dear. Maybe you should just call me Isadora Duncan from now on!"

Rose's head snapped up in alarm. I caught her eye and discreetly shook my head. _Just the scarves, darlin. Nothin else._

Henry checked his wristwatch. "Gee. Only twenty minutes til midnight. Honey, you might wanna change into something warm."

We refilled our champagne glasses and, just before the big moment, crowded onto our balcony overlooking Fifth Avenue. The heart of the festivities was two blocks west and eleven blocks south of us, but nothing in the area was tall enough to obstruct our view of Times Tower. The sky was low and gray with thick, warming clouds. The city was lit with candles as celebrants crowded the streets. From the Square itself, up to Central Park behind us, they were packed in like sardines. Their voices carried chants and songs of New Year's in a dozen different languages.

Henry drew Rose close and nuzzled her neck. She shrieked with laughter. Ruth turned away and self-consciously nursed her dim-glowing cigarette.

I stood off to the side, looking east into the shadows where the Chrysler Building was under construction. _What would Tommie think of the Art Deco style? _It seemed to me an important question, but I just couldn't figure out the answer.

"Look!" Ruth cried. They began to lower the shimmering ball. We joined the crowds in counting. _Ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… _The orb dropped out of our sight behind some buildings. We kept going._ Four… three… two… one… Happy New Year!_

"Happy new _decade!_" Henry whooped as Rose threw back her champagne. Beneath us, the crowds joined in a tune known all over the English-speaking world:

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot_

_And never brought to mind?_

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot_

_And auld lang syne?_

I was swept with a sudden wave of emotion. I rushed forward, leaned over the wrought iron railing, and hollered my answer into the thick night air: "No, they should _not _be forgot!"

I knew then why I couldn't pin Tommie's opinion of Art Deco: because he had never _seen _Art Deco. The picture of him in my mind's eye was so vivid, especially today. But I still saw him in peg top trousers, and carrying that quaint pocket watch. I remembered his hopes for Ireland's future: peace, prosperity, industry. He hadn't seen the Great War, or his country's civil war, or this year's market crash. His laugh lines had never grown any deeper, or his middle-age spread any bigger, or his hair any grayer. He never saw his Elba grow up.

To think of him missing his daughter's childhood was awful. But the other revelations were somehow, strangely beautiful. Bittersweet, you might say. Thomas Andrews occupied a place in my mind that was younger and more innocent than the world of 1930. Remembering him now was like remembering one's childhood guardian angel… long after one's childhood is gone.

Ruth and Henry slipped inside. Rose came up and kissed me on the cheek. "Thank you, Molly."

I couldn't speak. I just nodded. She squeezed my hand in comfort, then entwined our fingers together.

"For _everything._" She stood beside me for a moment, silent, her eyes heavy-lidded. Then she asked, "What are you thinking about?"

I swallowed hard. "Guardian angels… How 'bout you, darlin?"

She was pensive then. The candlelight from below gave her soft features a quiet, radiant look. The briefest laugh escaped her ruby lips. "Flying machines."


	21. Dear Miss Barrett

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing! For the origins of all characters and events, please consult James Cameron's _Titanic _first, historical fact second. See References for more information.

**XXI. Dear Miss Barrett**

_Friday, 11 November, 1932_

Dear Miss Barrett,

The enclosed document was found by Helen Brown Benzinger in an unmarked manila envelope on her mother's hotel room desk, beneath a stack of Faure records. Mrs. Benzinger claims to have only read the cover letter, before entrusting the document to me during her mother's funeral.

After speaking with Margaret's colleagues at the theater, I have determined that you are the intended recipient of this document. Margaret's colleagues assure me that you are a young lady of good character, who can be trusted to keep the confidences of others. So I am carrying out my good friend's unspoken wishes by delivering this document to you.

To the best of my knowledge and recollection, this account is not only factually accurate, but also displays Margaret's characteristic frankness, humor and insight. However, there are significant portions of the account whose accuracy I cannot verify, (and some things cannot be verified by _anyone _still living.) These also happen to be some of the most sensitive parts of the document.

While I personally have no reason to disbelieve even a single word of this account, please know that if you decide to make it public after all, I will be the first to stand up and remind the world that this is the tale of a self-professed "confabulator" who, we now know, was suffering from an advance-stage brain tumor while writing. I would hate to so discredit a tender story of honor and friendship. However, for the sake of their families, I am obligated to protect the reputable memories of Margaret Brown and Thomas Andrews Jr.

I have not shared this document with anyone else- not even my daughter. I have retained no copy for my own records, so the fate of this story is entirely in your hands. I do not know for certain what Margaret wished to convey to you through this story; I will let the writing speak for itself. I only ask that you remember Margaret, not as the tabloids have already begun to paint her in death, but as she truly was in life.

Margaret Brown was a remarkably strong, intelligent, vivacious woman, who amidst a bustling portfolio of cultural, political, and philanthropic pursuits, still managed to form warm personal connections with a wide variety of individuals. Her friendship enriched the lives of many, and _saved _the lives of my daughter and me.

Unlike some of her other friends and family, I grew closer to Margaret in the last few years of her life than ever before. It was during this time that I asked her, "How is it that you've been such a good friend to me, after all I put you through in 1912?"

After a moment's thought, she replied with what I then thought of as pluck, but I now recognize was wisdom. "Well, Ruth, I felt an obligation towards you. After all, we were in the same boat."

In conclusion, Miss Josephine Barrett, I hope Margaret's story lifts your spirits as it has lifted mine, and I wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors.

Sincerely,

Ruth DeWitt Bukater


	22. Acknowledgements & References

**XXII. Acknowledgements & References**

**Thank you** to all my readers! All you quiet folks who read but don't review- I appreciate you too! I know how many of you there are; I check my traffic stats. And… wow, you're an international bunch, aren't ya? :-D

**Thank you especially** to my reviewers, for the advice and encouragement. Thank you for taking the time to post your comments; they always make my day! :-) Still amazed by how much attention this story's gotten!

**My tumblr reviewer:** Thank you for the depth of insight that comes from knowing and loving ships in general, not just _Titanic._ Thanks for the great conversations on the psychology of the characters. And of course, thanks for the virtual sharing of chocolate and tea!

**Ograndebatata:** Thank you for the thorough comments, the attention to historical detail, and in many cases a fresh perspective on things I've written in both this story and "Yours, Tommie."

**Spirit of the Scottish Kelpie:** Thank you SO MUCH for the support from the very beginning! Thanks for the mutual R&R's and the PM conversations this entire summer, both serious and 'fangirling.' And for affirming when I somehow manage to write dialogue that actually sounds authentically Northern Irish. *shrugs*

**Robinhood-Fiction:** I'm very excited about possibly seeing the story translated! Merci!

**Susan Viktorija, FlashFiction, twinkledee, JulieFan1, Elna11, Horses of Shadow and Night, Guest, The Inimitable Enigma Cypher:** You all make me smile a lot. :-) :-) :-) For one of you in particular, I know that reviewing this was stepping a little out of your comfort zone. Extra thanks to you! :-)

Film Sources

_A Night To Remember. _Dir. Roy Ward Baker. Perf. Laurence Naismith, Tucker McGuire, Frank Lawton, and Michael Goodliffe. The Rank Organisation, 1958.

_Titanic. _Dir. James Cameron. Perf. Kate Winslet, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kathy Bates, Jonathan Hyde, Frances Fisher, and Victor Garber. Paramount Pictures, 1997.

Print Sources

Bullock, Shan F. _Thomas Andrews: Shipbuilder. _Dublin and London: Maunsel & Company, Ltd. 1912.

Eaton, John P., & Haas, Charles A. _Titanic: Triumph and Tragedy (2__nd__ edition)._ New York: W. W. Norton & Company. 1995.

Iverson, Kristen. _Molly Brown: Unraveling the Myth. _Boulder, Co: Johnson Books. 1999.

Marsh, Ed. W. (Photos by Douglas Kirkland). _James Cameron's Titanic._ New York: Harper Collins. 1997.

White, Ellen E. _Voyage on the Great Titanic: The Diary of Margaret Ann Brady._ New York: Scholastic, Inc. 1998.

Music Sources

Horner, James. "Titanic: 4-CD Collector's Anniversary Edition." Sony Masterworks, 2012. CD.

Wikipedia Pages On…

1910s in Fashion

1920s in Fashion

Alhambra

Alva Belmont

Arthur Rostron

Auld Lang Syne

Chinese Checkers

Chrysler Building

Coco Chanel

Comparison of American and British English

Crape

Edwardian era

Gabriel Faure

Glossary of Ballet

Harland & Wolff

Hiberno-English

History of feminism

HMHS _Britannic_

Irish Civil War

J. Bruce Ismay

John Jacob Astor IV

Ladies' Home Journal

Louis XV

Louise Abbema

Lucy, Lady Duff-Gordon

Manhattan

Margaret Brown

Newport, Rhode Island

Park Avenue

Phytophtora infestans

Poker

Ritz-Carlton

RMS _Carpathia_

RMS _Olympic_

RMS _Titanic_

Sarah Bernhardt

Sinking of the RMS _Titanic_

Society Hill, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Titanic (1997 film)

Titanic crew

The Grand Staircase of the RMS _Titanic_

Thomas Andrews (shipbuilder)

White Star Line

William Pirrie

Winnie the Pooh

Women's Suffrage

Women's Trade Union League

Wristwatch

Other Internet Sources

Cafeparisien history . php

_Encyclopedia Titanica _(multiple pages of this fantastic site were very useful in my research!)

Fashionencyclopedia . com: 1900-1918

Google Maps

Google Translate

IMDB (The Internet Movie Database): _Titanic_

IMSDB (The Internet Movie Script Database): _Titanic (1997 draft), Written by James Cameron_

Jwa encyclopedia / article / bernhardt-sarah

Magnificenttitanic . tumblr. com

_Titanic-Titanic . com_ (multiple pages)

The Sarah Bernhardt Pages: www . templeresearch . eclipse . co . uk / sarah / Sarah . htm

Thevillager villager_206 / thenouveauxsarah . html

www . historyplace worldhistory / famine / after . htm

www . livingcityarchive htm / decades / 1920 . htm

www . nmni titanic / On-Board / Eating /

www . rmsolympic smoke . html

www . snopes language / acronyms / posh . asp

www . timessquarenyc events / new-years-eve / history / index . aspx

www . titanicinquiry USInq / AMInq01 . php

www . victoriana swimsuit / bathingsuits . htm

www . westegg inflation / infl . cgi

www . wilstar holidays / newyear . htm

www . x-rates . com

Youtube: "BBC News – Thomas Andrews." Uploaded by christinah3000, 4/19/2012

Youtube: "Thomas Andrews- Titanic's Designer." Uploaded by titanicstories, 6/9/2011

Youtube: "Titanic Deleted Scene-Rose's Dreams." Uploaded by TitanicDawson1912, 2/26/2008

Youtube: "Titanic / We Waited Too Long." Uploaded by VeritasFilia, 12/26/2010

Youtube: "Titanic: Birth of a Legend." Uploaded by evilwarcow, 8/29/2011

Youtube: "Titanic: Jack and Rose singing Come Josephine in My Flying Machine." Uploaded by ObsessedWitTwilight, 1/22/2009

Youtube: "Where Titanic Was Built." Uploaded by titanicstories, 5/24/2011


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